


Lessons In Lovemaking

by BlueVase



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/M, Patrick has a good time too, Smut, but mainly Shelagh, different places, different positions, losing virginity, oral at some point too, sex with clothes on will also happen in the future I am sure, shelagh has a good time, solo time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-05-05 04:57:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14609835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueVase/pseuds/BlueVase
Summary: Shelagh is more than ready to start her new life as Mrs Turner, but there is one part that worries her a little, since she wants to please Patrick always: what happens between men and women in the bedroom. However, she reasons that lovemaking is a skill just like any other, and can be taught. After discussing her concerns with Patrick, he comes up with several lessons for her, which include a lot of real life practice.





	1. Chapter 1

**Thanks to @purple-roses-words-and-love for being my beta.**

**Taking lessons**

Shelagh breached the topic two weeks before they were to be legally married.

They were sitting in his living room. The clock on the mantelpiece told her she had about half an hour more before Patrick would have to take her to her lodgings. Perhaps it was this timeframe of roughly thirty minutes that allowed her to be bold. Maybe it was his proximity on the couch next to her, close enough for her to feel the warmth that radiated off of him and smell his cologne. It didn’t hurt that Timothy, still on the mend from his bout of polio, was upstairs and asleep.

 _It’s most likely this cigarette, though,_ she thought, loosely putting her lips around it and inhaling shallowly before passing it back to him. There were many areas in their lives that they were yet to figure out, but the sharing of a fag, at least, was familiar.

Patrick took the cigarette from her, his rough palm brushing the back of her hand. The filter was shiny from her saliva, and pink from her lipstick.

They had been sitting in silence for a quarter of an hour now, sharing cigarettes. That was part of why she had fallen in love with him: with Patrick, there was no need to talk, to fill the silence. She could sit next to him, his right hand clasping her left one, their free hands passing cigs back and forth, and never did the quietude feel awkward or strained.

Well, until she’d thought of breaching this particular topic, of course.

A nervous energy coiled inside of her, and made her almost drop the cigarette when Patrick gave it to her. She inhaled deeply, almost coughed, and squashed the remaining stub in the ashtray balanced on the armrest of the sofa.

“Do you want another one?” Patrick asked.

“Maybe smoking three cigarettes in one evening is rather… indulgent, Patrick,” she said, not looking at him.

“You’re sharing them with me, though, so technically you’d only be smoking one and a half,” he quipped.

She gave him a weak smile, then sighed. “Go ahead.” She needed something to concentrate on.

Whilst he took a fresh Henley out of his cigarette case, clamped his lips around it, and tried to light it, Shelagh took the opportunity to say what had been troubling her. “Patrick, is there any way I can prepare for the… physical intimacy of our wedding night?” She spoke softly but swiftly, growing beet red as the words left her mouth.

Patrick’s head swivelled around so fast she could almost hear his vertebrae groan. “What did you say?” he asked, the words muffled because the cigarette was still between his lips.

“Is there any way I can prepare… Oh, forget that I asked,” she said, eyes trained on her lap. She had the sudden desire to cry, and chewed the inside of her cheek so she had a different bodily discomfort to focus on rather than her burning eyes.

“No, Shelagh,” he said. He took the cigarette from his mouth and threw it on the coffee table, then twisted on the couch so that he was facing her. He enveloped her hands with his. “Shelagh, did I hear correctly that you asked me what you can do to prepare for our lovemaking?”

She still didn’t look at him, but nodded slowly.

Patrick cleared his throat, left index finger absent-mindedly tapping the soft skin between her knuckles. “How much do you know?” he asked.

“I know the mechanics. I’m a midwife, after all, Patrick. I’ve heard the women in clinic talk about it at times, too. Some of the things they’ve said have made me think that there must be more to it than just… the movements I know of.” She spoke slowly, choosing each word with care.

She had never discussed sex with anyone before. Not like this, at any rate, not with her as a possible participant. As a teenager, she’d always thought that it was pleasurable for men to make love, and that women found pleasure in pleasing. An aunt had once told her that the best thing was to lie back and think of something else, which hadn’t inspired much desire in Shelagh to go and find a beau. Had she already wanted to become a nun then? She thought so, yes. Hadn’t her aunt told her that she wouldn’t miss out on anything much if she decided to deny herself the pleasures of the flesh?

“The thing is that you have been married before. I’m sure you have expectations of our… marital relations.” She wondered why she couldn’t just say _sex._ She wet her lips with her tongue. “You are used to a certain standard, and I’m terribly inexperienced.  I want to please you.”

“Why do you think you won’t? We can discover things together, Shelagh,” Patrick said gently.

She blushed again. “I’d rather have a bit of… well, not _experience_ , not exactly, at any rate, but I’d like to know more about what goes on behind closed bedroom doors than what the midwifery textbooks say.”

“So what you want is some kind of lessons in lovemaking,” Patrick said. He said it with a little frown on his face. She loved him though for not laughing at her, for not being condescending. She could kiss him.

Instead, she extracted her hands and leaned forward so she could pick up the cigarette from the table. Her hands trembled a little as she brought it to her mouth. They were both silent as Patrick lit it for her and she took the first few puffs before giving it to him.

Patrick blew out a puff of smoke through his nostrils. He took her hand in his again, lacing their fingers together. His dry, warm touch brought her some comfort. “Shelagh, please don’t take offence at my next question,” he said. He spoke slowly, too, bringing the cigarette to her mouth, then using his free hand to loosen his tie. There were red splotches of colour in his neck.

 _He’s very nervous, maybe even more than I am,_ she realised. The thought was a calming one. She was never one to panic easily, and knowing that the man she loved had some anxiety caused by the topic as well once again confirmed his deep care for her.

“How can I take offence?” she murmured after she’d taken a puff.

He didn’t answer, but took a few deep drags from the cigarette, reducing it to its filter. She took the butt from him, stroking his hairy knuckles with her thumb, then put it in the ashtray.

“Have you ever touched yourself?” he asked.

She raised her brows. “Patrick, that’s sinful,” she said, a little edge to her voice. She’d thought he was serious about this, but now…

“Is it?”

“It’s not for procreation.”

“Shelagh, what do you think lovemaking is?” Patrick sat up straight, locking gazes with her.

“Well, it’s meant to be for producing children first and foremost,” she said, but she didn’t sound so sure. Was she really about to lecture Patrick on what lovemaking was supposed to be when she didn’t have the first clue as to how it worked in practice?

“If that’s first and foremost in your mind, then let me make sure that having fun and experiencing something beautiful and intimate with someone you love takes a very close second place,” he said.

She touched his face, trying to smooth the wrinkle next to his mouth with her thumb. “I’m sure that giving you pleasure will be very satisfying to me,” she said.

He didn’t smile at her, as she’d expected he would. Instead, he wore a puzzled, slightly worried expression. “Shelagh, you do know that lovemaking when done right also brings intense pleasure to women, don’t you?”

She blinked. Did she know that? That didn’t sound much like her aunt’s lie-back-and-think-of-England advice.

_But the things the women in the clinic said…_

She could tell him that, yes, of course she knew that. But it wouldn’t be entirely honest of her, and now that she had come this far, it would be plain silly to keep things from him. Besides, she wanted to be honest with him, even though this topic bewildered her. “No, I don’t think I know that very well,” she said.

They both jumped when the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the whole hour.

“Hell’s bells,” Patrick muttered, standing and stretching his arms over his head. “Come, darling. We must hurry, or your landlady will think we’re up to the very thing we’ve been discussing.”

Shelagh had some time to gather her thoughts and analyse her feelings as she gathered her few belongings and let Patrick help her into her coat. The evening air was crisp and sharp as a knife, clearing her head. She was glad for the car’s heater, though. And the car also allowed her to look at the road, and not at Patrick, as she chattered about other things. She thought he must’ve forgotten all about her request for ‘lessons’ as he called it, but was proven wrong when he parked the car in front of her lodgings and killed the engine.

“Shelagh, I’m serious,” he said, turning to her, his gloved hands on the steering wheel.

“About what?” she asked, a smile on her face.

“About you touching yourself. Now hear me out,” – she had started to open her mouth in protest – “I don’t think it’s sinful at all. Think of it as an experiment, as preparation for married life. You want to be a good wife, and you think that pleasing me in bed is part of that, am I right?”

She blushed fiercely, but didn’t break eye contact. She nodded.

“Then please try it for me. There’s two more weeks till the wedding. That’s plenty of time to find out what you like. If you know what you enjoy, then our lovemaking will be easier, and more pleasurable.”

“And how am I supposed to find that out?” she whispered, the words almost inaudible because of the noise the car’s heater made.

 “You can do it when you’re in bed, or when you’re having a bath. Just… just think of me, and the things you’d like to do with me. Physical things. When you feel you’re ready to try touching yourself, you can start by stroking your breasts, or your belly, or your thighs.” He cleared his throat. His voice had slipped into his professional doctor’s tone. Perhaps she hadn’t realised just how awkward it would be for him to talk of this.

“Alright,” she said. “And then?”

“There’s a little bundle of nerves between your legs, slightly to the top of where your folds begin. It’s extremely sensitive to touch. Try and rub it with a fingertip, or around it, if you find it too intense to touch. See what happens.”

She nodded.

Patrick gave her a goofy grin, then got out of the car and went around to hold the door open for her. It was too cold to linger long on the steps outside of her lodgings, so she gave him a chaste kiss on the lips. When she leaned away from him, he bent forward, and swiftly pecked her cheek. As he did so, he whispered to her, “there’s no pressure, Shelagh. Just give it a try if you feel like it. And if you do, please tell me how it felt. This is lesson number one.”

She blushed scarlet. “How many are there?” she managed to ask as she fumbled with the lock of the door.

“As many as you want, darling,” Patrick said.

As she stumbled inside and shut the door behind her, her breathing was rapid and shallow. Her belly clenched and coiled almost painfully.  

 _The first of my lessons in lovemaking,_ she thought.

It was embarrassing.

It was sinful.

And it was also darkly, wickedly exciting.


	2. Lesson Number One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shelagh decides to put Patrick's first lesson into practice.

**Thanks to @purple-roses-words-and-love for being my beta.**

**Lesson number one**

 

Shelagh had desired Patrick so much she had practically ached with need when he’d brought her back to her lodgings. She hadn’t acted on those feelings right away, though, not in the least because the walls of her room were thin and her landlady a devout, rather conservative woman. Instead, she had waited for a moment when she was alone and could put Patrick’s theory into practice. That moment came two days later, when the landlady went out to do some shopping.

“I’ll be back in an hour or two, love,” Mrs Baker said. “Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you,” Shelagh said, giving her a nod and a small smile before returning to her copy of _Jane Eyre._ Her thoughts, however, had turned almost immediately away from Mr Rochester and to Doctor Turner. She thought of his broad, rough hands with a smattering of dark hair on each knuckle, of his smooth forearms, and his broad shoulders. He was so much taller than she, yet she never felt dwarfed by him. Instead, there was only the feeling of safety when he took her in his arms, and dark desire when he loomed over her before kissing her.

Shelagh crossed and uncrossed her legs, then rubbed them together as heat pooled in her belly. Her breathing had sped up a little. If she were to look in a mirror, she was sure she’d find that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were luminous.

 _There’ll never be a better moment than now,_ she thought. Part of her wanted to jump up from the couch and half-run half-walk to her bedroom.

She decided to heed the part of her that wanted to relish every sensation instead, and carefully marked the page in her book before rising and smoothing her skirt. She clenched and unclenched her hands as she strolled to her bedroom, doing it casually, even though there was no one to watch her.

 _There’s time,_ she thought, but she wasn’t entirely sure whether that was true. How long did these things take?

_Time to find out._

She closed the bedroom door behind her with a soft _snick_ , and locked it. Her hand trembled. She slipped out of her shoes and put them underneath the chair at the desk, adjusting them so they stood perfectly straight. Next, she pulled the curtains closed. When someone asked why, she’d claim a headache.

She put a towel over the mattress so the linen wouldn’t be soiled by whatever she was about to do.

 _Patrick said to take your time. Explore your body in detail,_ she thought as she undid the buttons of her jacket and slung it over the chair. Underneath, she wore a silk blouse, and her slip. She placed the palm of her hand over her chest to feel her heartbeat. It was a little fast, but also hard and steady. She smiled.

_All because of you, Patrick._

She put her glasses and watch away, then unzipped her skirt, folded it, and put it on the chair. Her blouse followed. She stood only in her slip now, and shivered. It was spring, but the weather was still cold, and the heating here wasn’t very good. It was better than at Nonnatus, but the chill made the hairs on her arms and legs rise nonetheless.

She hesitated, then touched her breasts through her slip and brassiere. Her nipples had hardened; she could feel them through the layers of fabric. What would it feel like if Patrick pushed his hand underneath her clothing and rubbed her soft flesh till her nipple stood out?

She blushed at such a sinful thought and almost dropped her hand again. “But it isn’t sin, Shelagh,” she said out loud, and to banish the thought that it was she placed her other hand on her other breast, massaging the flesh till her breath came in little pants and her legs felt weak. She pulled her slip over her head and folded it neatly, then unclasped her brassiere and hung it over the chair before sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Her stockings came next. She needed several tries to unclasp her garters; her fingers had become numb from the cold, and she was shivering from the temperature and anticipation both.

Patrick had whispered in her ear once that he loved her legs. He could only have seen the outline of them, so she wondered what he’d think once he’d see all of them. Shelagh put her fingertips on her ankle and stroked upwards. Her skin was very pale; these parts of her hadn’t seen sunlight in years. The freckles that speckled her since her childhood were still there, though. Shelagh tapped them in surprise.

 _I have ignored my body for so long…_ Nuns were supposed to be spiritual creatures first and foremost, denying and ignoring the flesh to feel closer to God. She had tried to get into tune with her body more during her months in the sanatorium, but then, she had mainly looked for signs of illness and healing.

 _There are so many secrets my body holds for me,_ she thought a little sadly. Then, _and Patrick and I will discover them together._ That cheered her up.

She pulled her knickers down and slipped underneath the covers, waiting a few minutes for her body to grow warm again, thinking of Patrick. When he laughed, a myriad of wrinkles fanned out from the corners of his eyes, the opposite of tears. She loved it when he laughed. It was a dear sound, hard-won even though it sounded carefree. When he laughed, his belly shook. He always breathed from his belly. She had tried to match him once, but had quickly become breathless. His proximity was partly to blame for that, she was sure. Would he breathe so deeply when they lay entwined? She didn’t think so. His belly would be soft then. She thought of tracing the arrow of hair that grew there, and shivered in anticipation.

She twisted on her back and pulled her legs up, rubbing her own belly, following the line from her bellybutton down to her pubic hair. She hesitated again, then touched the hair there. It was somewhat coarse, curly, and darker than the hair that grew from her head.

She stroked her thighs next, drawing small circles that grew into bigger ones, like water rippling.  With both hands she took hold of her hips, following the sharp blade of bones underneath the skin. She imagined Patrick holding her there as he drove into her. She wanted their first time to be tender above all, but surely there would be times when it wasn’t tender, but passionate or even wild? The idea of driving him so wild with want that he would take her a little roughly made her breathing hitch.

She touched her breast again. Her own hand was small. Would Patrick be able to cup her breast in its entirety? She’d like him to. A picture of him sucking one nipple rose in her mind unbidden. It made her moan. The sound was loud and unexpected, and for a few seconds shame took over. She lowered her legs and sat up, her heart beating wildly, one leg already slung over the edge of the bed.

“No,” she said, and made herself lie down again. There was nothing to be ashamed about, nothing to feel guilty about. Every married couple she had seen in clinic had engaged in acts such as the one she had just imagined, and plenty of unwed couples, too. She was not the only one to imagine these things, and she’d certainly not be the last.

It took a while to get going again, but she managed it by caressing her thighs and breasts and by putting a hand over her vagina and applying light pressure. By then, her breathing was coming in little pants, and her belly was clenched with desire.

 _“There’s a little bud between your legs. If you touch it, it causes a sensation of pleasure,”_ she remembered, and smiled a little as she used a finger to part her labia and stroke up and down to get a sense of what that felt like. She shivered as her fingertip came back glistening. It was a good thing she was lying on a towel. She spread the wetness, feeling her swollen flesh grow soft as velvet. Would Patrick’s sex feel soft, too? His manhood would be hard when they’d make love, but what would the skin feel like?

She moaned at the idea of holding him in her hand, and stroked her folds a little faster before letting her finger travel upwards to feel around for the bundle of nerves Patrick had described. She found it almost immediately, and cried out as she touched it. Pleasure coursed through her already, and she hadn’t even started caressing it properly. She skirted around it, trying to decide what felt best. She was throbbing with want now. It felt as if her heartbeat was echoed down there.

 _Here we go,_ she thought, and touched the bundle again. Was there a name for it? She’d have to ask Patrick. At this moment, she couldn’t care less what doctors named it. There was only a building pressure between her legs, a heat that grew and grew with each stroke. She squeezed her breast with her free hand, rolling the nipple between her fingers, twisting it a little till she gasped.

The pressure broke unexpectedly. She cried out at the force of it, her hips surging off the bed. She rocked against her own hand, desperately trying to drag out her pleasure. When her hips came down, she lay very still, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She opened her eyes, and stared at the ceiling, a smile playing around her lips.

She was damp with sweat. Were she to look in the mirror now, the roots of her hair would  be dark with it. Beads of perspiration had gathered in the hollows of her knees. When she stretched her legs, they rolled down, making her shiver. She knew that women birthed babies whilst being bathed in sweat. She hadn’t realised that those babies were conceived in sweat, too.

 _When Patrick and I do this in a few days’ time, we’ll be slick as selkies,_ she thought. Their damp skins would stick together as they lay together. It was that image that made her happier than anything else.

When she was sure her legs could carry her, she towelled herself dry, then used a flannel and a bowl of water to wash herself. She dressed slowly, caressing her body as she did so. When all of that was done, she went to the telephone, and called the surgery.

“Doctor Turner speaking.”

She smiled against the horn.

“Hello,” she whispered.

“Shelagh?” His voice softened instantly.

“I wanted to let you know I took your advice,” she said. Was her voice always this deep, purring thing? Surely not. Surely, this was only for him.

“My advice?”

“Your first lesson.”

He swallowed thickly. “And?” The word was low, almost a growl.

“It has made me look forward to our wedding night more than ever.”

“Good.”

She wished it was tomorrow, no, today. How could she wait more than a week longer before doing the things she had just imagined experiencing with him?

“And?” she whispered.

“And?”

“When will we talk about lesson number two?”

She could practically hear him smile. “Why don’t I pick you up after surgery? When Tim has gone to bed we can discuss the results of your first lesson in more detail, and decide together upon a subject for your second lesson.”

Her belly clenched again. She was sure she’d washed between her legs, but that strange place already felt moist once more. She put a hand on her knee and dug her nails in her skin. “That would be… very appropriate,” she said.

She couldn’t wait.  


	3. Lesson Number Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shelagh talks with Patrick about lesson number one. Patrick tells her about her second lesson, for which she'll need a partner. They decide to put her theoretical knowledge into practice very soon.

**Thanks to @purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing.**

**Lesson Number Two**

“So it was quite nice,” Shelagh finished lamely.

They were sitting on the golden sofa in Patrick’s living room, sharing a cigarette again. Shelagh let go of Patrick’s hand so she could pick up her teacup and saucer. It was easier not to look at him now that she’d told him how she’d felt when she’d put his first lesson into practice.

“I’m glad,” Patrick said. His voice was soft, gentle. He put the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray, the smoke curling around his hand. He cleared his throat, and seemed to be on the cusp of saying something, but swallowed it down.

 _He’s waiting for me to speak,_ Shelagh realised. She drank the last sips of tea before putting the cup and saucer down. She put her hand on Patrick’s knee to steady herself as she slid back onto the couch. Patrick put his arm around her and pressed a kiss to her temple. Her belly coiled in anticipation. She put one leg over the other to quell the sensation. It seemed that she had become even more sensitive to Patrick’s touch now that she’d discovered what pleasure her body was capable of.

“Patrick, what’s that bud between my legs called?”  she asked, her voice low. She fiddled with his tie so she didn’t have to look at him. The fabric was soft, the pattern one of the more palatable ones. Shelagh had decided she’d go through his collection of ties when she moved her clothes into their shared wardrobe, and donate the most obnoxious ones. The charity bin wasn’t picky about the colour of the ties it received; she, however, was.

“It’s called the clitoris. Sometimes that word is shortened to clit,” he said.

Shelagh frowned. “I don’t like it,” she said.

Patrick laughed. The sound rumbled through his belly, then seemed to echo within his throat and grow loud as it escaped between his lips. She startled a little at the loudness of his mirth. “Darling,” he said, and kissed her temple again, leaving his lips on her skin. The place burned, and she shivered against him, heat pooling between her legs. “And why doesn’t my darling like that word?” Patrick murmured. His breath ruffled the baby hairs that wisped past her ear, and her lashes. Gooseflesh rippled over her arms and legs.

“It sounds so harsh. Clit. It doesn’t describe what that little bud feels like at all.”

“It doesn’t, does it?”

She tilted her head up so she could meet his mouth. “No,” she murmured, and pressed her lips against his.

They sat kissing for a while, her hand tangled in his tie, his loosely placed over her hip, occasionally rubbing the harsh blade of bone with his thumb. The kisses were soft at first, but as their mouths grew wet and warm they pressed against each other with more force, sucking and licking and biting.

They broke apart when they were both dizzy and out of breath. Shelagh put a thumb on his bottom lip, stroking the sleek, slightly swollen flesh. He put his lips around the digit and sucked it, causing her hips to jump.

“Patrick,” she whispered.

He released her thumb. “Shelagh,” he said, unable to keep from smirking.

“May I see the bedroom?”

He cocked an eyebrow at her, causing her to blush. “It’s just that… I think I’d be more comfortable on our wedding night if I’ve spent some time there with you already,” she said.

He cupped her face and stroked her hot cheeks. “Of course, my love. I understand.”

“I’m looking forward to it very much.” She forced herself to be brave. “To have your weight press me down, to feel you inside me…”

She thought he’d tell her he wanted that, too, that he couldn’t wait to feel her around him. Instead, he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and smiled at her, a strange, sweet smile of gentleness.

 _He finds me endearing,_ she thought.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Shelagh, what do you think sex is?” he asked.

She furrowed her brow as she thought. “I always thought it would be about penetration,” she said slowly, “but now that you’ve asked me, and now that I’ve gone through your first lesson, I’m not so sure anymore.”

“Oh, it can be about penetration, and that is certainly something nice to try, but it isn’t exclusively about that,” Patrick said. She stroked his cheek. There was a patch of skin the size of her thumbnail he had not shaved very well. The stubbles were rough against her hand, the texture not unlike that of sandpaper.  “There will be times,” he went on, “when our lovemaking won’t involve penetration at all. We can make love with only our hands and mouths.” He smiled. “I think that will be my second lesson for you: to discover with me that we can use our hands and have a good time.”

“So I’ll need a partner for this lesson,” Shelagh said.

He swallowed again, his Adam’s apple prominent as it bobbed in his throat. “Would you care to go upstairs with me, so we can practice the second lesson?”

The coiling in her belly turned into an almost-pain. “Alright,” she said.

She was weak on her legs as they made their way to the bedroom. His hand grew hot in hers. They tiptoed past Timothy’s room, even though he slept like a rock thanks to his grapple with polio and due to the fact that he was a growing boy.

“Here it is,” Patrick whispered, and opened the door to the bedroom, stepping aside to let her go in first.

She stepped onto the soft carpet and looked around. There was a vanity standing close to the window. She saw her reflection in it.

 _Are my eyes really this shiny?_ she thought.

There was nothing on the vanity safe for a set of brushes and combs. She wondered how long it had been empty. Had it contained pots of rouge and cold cream and bottles of scent when Marianne had still been alive? Though maybe Patrick had bought the piece of furniture especially for her as a wedding present, and Marianne hadn’t used it at all.

Her eyes wandered to the spacious wardrobe, then to the bed. It seemed very large, the covers warm. There was a nightstand on each side, his cluttered with cufflinks and copies of _The Lancet,_ the one soon to be hers empty.

Patrick stepped past her and to the bed. He stroked the covers, then peeled them back. There was something blowsy and inviting about rumpled sheets. More wetness pooled between her legs.

“Are you ready?” he asked, patting the mattress.

“We must undress,” she said. He smirked at her. Her face grew hot, and she shook her head. “I don’t want my clothes to get dirty,” she said.

“Of course. Do… Do you want me to help you?” His fingers twitched against the pillow.

 _Yes,_ she thought.

“No. I don’t want you to see me. That is, not yet, because…” She was lost for words, and looked at her hands, tapping the little gemstone of her engagement ring with a nail.

“You want to save something for the wedding night,” Patrick concluded for her.

She looked up and nodded. “Yes.”

“I understand,” he said. He stood, the springs inside the mattress moaning a bit. He went to her, and brought her hand to his mouth, kissing the silvery line on her palm. “I’ll go into the bathroom and undress. You can do it here. Tell me when you’re ready.”

“Yes,” she said.

He kissed her forehead, then went into the bathroom. She waited for the soft _snick_ of the closing door behind him, then sat down on the edge of the bed. She heard the tap run, and a soft, metallic chime from metal on porcelain.

 _He removed his cufflinks,_ she thought.

Shelagh undressed swiftly but meticulously, placing her folded clothes on the stool in front of the vanity. She tried to avoid looking into the mirror; she wanted to see herself through Patrick’s eyes on their wedding night first.

The sheets were cold against her flushed skin. She shivered in delight, rubbing her feet over the mattress, taking comfort and pleasure out of the texture of the sheets against her skin. Soon her gooseflesh faded, though her nipples remained hard.

“Are you ready?” Patrick said, his voice muffled by the thick wooden door.

“Yes.”

“Don’t look.”

“I won’t.” She put her hands over her eyes, but couldn’t help but peek through her fingers as he came in anyway. He was somewhat wiry, and broad, and covered in hair. He was carrying a bowl of water, and some flannels. She quickly closed her eyes, her lashes fluttering against the sensitive skin of her hands.

The click of porcelain on wood indicated that he’d put the bowl and flannels down on her nightstand. The mattress dipped almost suddenly under his weight as he sat down and put his legs under the covers. He lied down with a sigh. She instinctively rolled towards him. He put an arm around her. He was very warm.

She opened her eyes. “Hello,” she murmured.

He grinned. “Hello.”

She placed a hand on his chest and pushed it through the hair that grew there. It was thick and somewhat coarse. Patrick nuzzled her neck, then started to place kisses along her jawline. Her hand opened and closed weakly. He shifted his weight. She gasped as she felt his manhood against her, heavy and hard.

“Patrick,” she whispered.

He paused, his kiss hot and open-mouthed on her throat. “Yes?”

“I want to touch you first,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She rolled on her side and looked at him through her lashes. It wasn’t easy to make out the minute expressions flitting over his face, not without her glasses, but she could still read awe and anticipation.

Without looking down she pushed her hand through his chest hair, down to his belly. He was soft there, and though she had expected that, it still came as a pleasant surprise to find out just how soft. The hair that grew in an arrow from his navel to his manhood was curly and coarse. She stroked it, going a little lower with each movement.

Patrick put his face against her throat. His breathing was coming rapid now, in hot, swift pants that made her belly clench and unclench like a fist.

She touched him, noting with surprise that he was hard, but the skin wrapping his manhood was silky soft, almost as soft as the flesh between her legs when damp with want. She cupped his balls. They were even softer. 

Patrick groaned. He put a hand on her hip, his fingers long enough to dig into her buttocks.

“What do I do?” Shelagh whispered.

“Wrap your hand around me, and move up and down. Do it slowly,” he said. His voice had become deep, almost guttural.

She did as he asked and moved her hand along the length of him. He grew harder under her touch. She explored the length of him, wondering if something that big could really comfortably fit inside of her. Perhaps it was indeed best if their lovemaking did not always consist of penetration.

 _But baby heads are a lot bigger, and those can come out, too. With some tearing most of the times, of course, but he’s not nearly as big as a child’s head,_ she thought, and that made the nagging worry in the pit of her stomach fall away.

“Is this alright?” she asked.

“You may squeeze a little harder,” he said.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

So she applied more pressure. He gasped against her throat, his fingers digging into her backside. She rocked her hips involuntarily. He copied her movement, bucking against her hand.

“Shelagh,” he moaned. Perspiration beaded on his face, at the nape of his neck. A droplet dripped down her throat and lay glistening in the hollow between her collarbones.

She placed the hand she wasn’t using to pleasure him on the back of his skull, dragging her fingers through his thick hair, lightly scratching his scalp. She kissed his forehead, smelling his shampoo.

He came undone with little warning. There was a moment in which he didn’t seem to breathe. Then, his hips bucked several times, his hands curling. Something hot and sticky coated her hand.

She didn’t move, just held him tight as he shivered against her, his penis growing soft in her hand.

It was such an intimate thing to have experienced with him that it was almost unbearable. She felt ready to cry, and didn’t know why.

“Darling,” he said after a while, looking up with a smile. “My darling.” He kissed her lips, then sat up and dipped one of the flannels in the bowl with cooling water. She held out her hand to him. He cupped it with the same tenderness he’d displayed in the Parish hall, and wiped his semen away. He cleaned each finger in turn, kissing the tips when they were done, swirling his tongue around.

“Was that alright?” Shelagh whispered. Her throat was thick.

“Very much so.”

He put the flannel away, then picked up his underwear. “Turn around, sweetheart,” he said. She did as he asked, listening to the rustling of fabric as he put his boxers on.

“You don’t have to for me,” she said.

He touched her shoulder, indicating that she could look again.

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” he said.

“I’m never uncomfortable with you.”

“Good,” he said, and kissed her. There was something languid about his movements, something happy and relaxed that hadn’t been there before. He had been tense and coiled, but now the springs had unloaded their energy and he was almost floppy as he held her.

He kissed her eyelids, her nose. “It wasn’t too much for you, was it, darling?” he asked.

She shook her head. She was still reluctant to speak. “It was beautiful,” she managed to say. “It was intimate.”

He smiled and kissed her again, his dry hand moving to her right breast. She sighed as he lightly stroked the flesh, skirting around her nipple. He cupped her breast, and she found that he could indeed encompass all of her flesh there with one hand. It was comforting; there were many things about lovemaking she had never realised before, but this, at least, she had managed to imagine correctly.

“Touch me more,” she said. Her want for him was an ache now. She rolled on her back and pulled her legs up. Patrick curled against her, pushing his right arm under her neck, putting his mouth against her temple. His dominant hand rubbed the skin between her breasts, stroked her belly.

“Touch me,” she said. The words came out with more force now, almost a sobbing.

He parted her folds with his index and ring finger, dipping his middle finger in between. He exhaled in surprise as he found that she wanted him so much that it coated her thighs. “God, Shelagh, you’re very wet,” he whispered.

“It’s because of you. It’s all for you,” she said, and rocked her hips, whining as her bundle dragged past his hand.

He adjusted his hand and dragged his index finger through her wetness, spreading it. He stroked her labia. Did he think about how soft she was as much as she’d done with him? She didn’t know.

“Please,” she begged.

“Do you want me to touch it, or is that too much?” he asked. His voice was husky.

“Touch it. Just… just… please.” She couldn’t speak anymore. She couldn’t remember the words.

He moved in slow, almost dreamlike circles, skirting around her bud, sometimes touching it. She gasped, her hips rocking without her consent. The heat and pressure inside her were building with each stroke. Her back arched.

 _I’ll snap my spine,_ she thought. She clung to his right hand, digging her nails into his over-washed skin. He intertwined their fingers. She pressed his hand. He squeezed back.

She tottered on the edge for what seemed an impossible long time, not knowing why the pressure didn’t break, what she needed to do to make the dams crack and flood her system with pleasure like it had done during the first lesson. Her flesh was swollen and somewhat raw. She let out a frustrated whine.

“It’s all right, Shelagh,” Patrick whispered. “It’s all right. Just let go.”

He put his fingertip on her bundle and applied light pressure.

She gasped as the heat broke, as bliss rained down upon her and swallowed her. Her hips rocked against his hand, her walls fluttered uselessly inside her, her spine curled and uncurled.

“Oh,” she said, over and over again. “Oh. Oh.”

Patrick gathered her in his arms and held her tight. She was slack as a ragdoll. They were both damp and breathing hard. She kissed his throat.

She realised she was crying.

“Oh,” she repeated.

“Was it too much?” Patrick asked, his strong arms slung around her.

“No,” she said. “No. It was just more than I thought it ever would be.”

He held her tight as she cried.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you,” he answered.

They didn’t speak for a long time.

They didn’t need to.

 


	4. Lesson Number Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shelagh and Patrick decide to try out one more lesson before the wedding night.

**A/N: Thank you guys for the lovely comments so far! Also a note about this third lesson, Ginchy did it first (and probably better) in her lovely fic _Oh Patrick!_**

**Lesson Number Three**

They met again just a handful of days before the wedding.  There was a lot to take care of still, but that evening they sat together on the sofa without worrying or directing, just happy to be in each other’s company again.

Later, Shelagh couldn’t remember who started the kiss. She was sure it was Patrick, but a small voice told her that he had awakened a hunger in her that could hardly be controlled since the first lesson, so it was perfectly possible that she had pressed her mouth to his first. Whoever started it, the other was soon to catch up, and as their kiss waxed and waned their breathing quickened and their hearts galloped.

“Patrick, is there a third lesson before the wedding night?” Shelagh asked when they had to tear their mouths away to regain their breath. He rested his forehead against hers, and fingered a lock of hair that had come undone.

“Perhaps there is. I haven’t thought about it. There are things other than penetration we may engage in, but I don’t want to go too far too soon,” he said. His voice was just above a whisper, and a little raspy. It reminded her of velvet wrapped around gravel. Shelagh’s cheeks flushed.

“I’m sorry. I won’t cry again, I promise,” she said.

Patrick took her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing every fingertip. “Don’t apologise, and don’t promise such a thing. There’s no shame in it. There’s no shame in any of this,” he said, taking a finger between his lips and sucking lightly.  

Her belly clenched like a fist. God, what this man did to her… At times it scared her, the intensity of her want for him, the violence of her feelings. She had always felt things deeply, but ever since she’d fallen in love with him, it seemed to her that she’d underestimated just how deep her emotions could run. Was it the same for him? He’d been married before. Was it like the first time all over again, or was it different? He was her first love, and perhaps there was a hungry quality to first love that could never be present in subsequent loves, a sort of low-grade fever that made the skin so sensitive that the brushing of a hand almost felt like an epiphany.

“What are you thinking about?” Patrick asked, tucking the lock of hair that he’d twined around his finger behind her ear.

“That loving you is just another form of worship,” she said. She blushed again, feeling a little silly even though Patrick never ridiculed her, never makes fun of anything she said or thought or felt, not even the things that really were a bit silly. Because of this, she forced herself to continue. “A very physical form of worship, at times, but I think I like that,” she added.

He smiled, and kissed her happily, sloppily. “Do you want to worship a little more?” he asked.

She nodded, and draped an arm around him. He eased her down on the sofa, his weight startlingly heavy on top of her. She instinctively wrapped her legs around him, grateful that she’d already removed her shoes; the last thing she wanted was to leave smears of dirt on the soft golden fabric of the sofa.

His tongue licked the seam of her mouth. She opened willingly to him, touching the tip of her tongue to his, moaning as one of his big hands started to rub her ribs, then came up to cup her breast through her jumper and slip and brassiere. It felt good, it always did, but she wanted to feel his skin on hers. She let one hand rest on the nape of his neck, stroking the thick hairs that grew there, and let the other travel to her chest so she could pull her jumper out of her skirt. To her surprise, Patrick took hold of her hand and pulled it back to where it was before.

 _Maybe we’re going too fast,_ she thought.

She cupped his face and stroked his ears, causing him to shiver against her. The pressure in her belly was mounting. A spasm of something that was almost an ache travelled through her as she felt him against her, growing hard. She wrapped her legs more tightly around him, bringing him closer to her.

Patrick groaned, and started to move his hips. She copied his sound, and followed suit. God, it felt nice to have him here, between her legs, to have him hard and solid on top of her. She felt insubstantial as a wisp of mist, but if she could feel the weight of him, then surely that meant she was still a corporeal being.

 _Though I’m no mist. I’m fire,_ she thought, and curled her hand in his hair. He slowly pulled his tongue back, ended their snog with several soft kisses on her lips, and moved his mouth to her throat. She held him there as he licked and sucked and bit, unable to stop the little whining sob that bubbled from her lungs. She again tried to pull up her sweater, but Patrick again took hold of her hand and stilled it.

She opened her eyes. “Patrick,” she whispered, “Patrick, I want to feel you, to _really_ feel you.”

He sighed. His breath was hot and trembling on her skin. She shivered, causing his hips to buck against her. It felt sublime. She wanted to go upstairs and lay in bed with him again, wearing nothing but his love for her, but she couldn’t be sure her legs would support her. They felt liquid, or rubbery, like string.

“Don’t you want that?” she asked.

He pulled back a little, his piercing eyes locking with hers. “I don’t think I can stop if we undress, Shelagh,” he said, very earnestly, very solemnly. Her love for him flooded her, made her eyes burn.

“You can’t?” she asked.

He shook his head, his floppy hair slapping his forehead. “I can’t. God, how I want you. If we’d be naked, I’m afraid I’d press into you and take you and make love to you like that.”

 _I’m afraid I’d let that happen. Maybe I’d even urge you to,_ she thought.

She tried to sit up. “Maybe we should stop now, then. Maybe you should take me back to my lodgings,” she whispered.

“No. We can have a good time with our clothes on,” Patrick said. He lowered his eyes to her hand still cradled in the hollow of his own, and stroked her knuckles. “If you want to,” he added.

She didn’t trust herself to speak. Instead, she pulled him on top of her again, kissing him roughly. Patrick wasted no time being surprised. Instead, he hitched up her skirt and rubbed her between her legs, smiling against her throat as he found the fabric damp.

 _Will he always be so happy at finding me aroused?_ Shelagh thought. Then his thumb pressed her knickers between her folds, and she couldn’t think much at all, only moan.  Her legs instinctively pulled him closer to her. He pulled his hand away and growled as she rocked against him. It would leave his trousers stained, but she couldn’t care about that, not as he was hard against her and stoked the fire inside her.

“More,” she whispered.

He put his hands on her hips and ground into her. She gasped and moaned, pleasure already coursing through her even though her release had not come.

He pulled back a little and placed his hand over her vagina, his middle finger pressing hard against her. She rocked against his hand, wanting his fingers slick with her desire against her bare skin, not this thin layer of cotton between. She grabbed his hand and curled her fingers around it, urging him to stop pressing against her so. He obeyed. With her other hand, she pulled her knickers down a little, then almost shoved his hand back to where it had been before.

“Shelagh,” he growled. She held his hand  where it was and rubbed it over her swollen, aching flesh, her wetness seeping through his fingers and staining her hand. When he found a rhythm she liked, she let his hand go, and  touched his belt and started to fumble with the buckle.

“Shelagh, we can’t,” Patrick said, panic tainting his voice, the fingers between her folds stilling. She rolled her hips to get the friction she wanted.

“No,” she said, because she wanted to explain to him that she was not going to draw him out and let him invade her, she just wanted to feel him in her hand again, wanted him to get his release as surely as she would get hers, but she couldn’t find the words to say this out loud.

She somehow managed to unbuckle him. She delved into his underclothes and found him very hard, rather big. She wrapped her hand around him and started to move, her own slickness making her hold tenuous and slippery.

“You too,” she said.

Patrick sat up, causing her to lose her hold on him. He grabbed her upper arms, doing it almost roughly, and hauled her up, planting her on his lap. “You don’t need to touch me like that,” he said. “We can do it fully clothed. Just… Just rock your hips over me.” His voice was all gravel now, no velvet.

He placed a hand on her rear, then let it travel down a little, pulling her leg away from the other. After a second she understood and straddled him.

 _Good thing his hips are slender. Perhaps God has made all men’s hips small for this purpose,_ she thought, her knees resting on the sofa, the golden fabric dimpling under the pressure.

“Hello,” she whispered. His face was only inches from hers. Perspiration had beaded on his brow. Drops lay cradled in the wrinkles on his face.

“Hello,” Patrick whispered back. His hands held her hips, his thumbs stroking the bone. She felt him hard between her legs, the fabric of his trousers and of their underwear somewhat lessening the friction but never enough to make rocking her hips not worth it. She draped her arms around his neck and kissed him as her hips started to move.

His fingers dug in her arse as he pressed her down, increasing the pressure. She gasped in his mouth. He drank in the little sound, giving it back to her with the next rocking motion.

“Good?” she asked, whispering the word against his lips.

“You’re a quick learner,” he replied, thrusting against her.

She liked it, this broad kind of pressure between her legs. Her walls fluttered, trying to clench around something that wasn’t there, and though that was a little sad, realising her body was anticipating something that wouldn’t happen, there was also joy in it because it was a promise for later. The fabric of her knickers was rough against her flesh. She preferred to have his fingers there, or something else that was slick and solid rather than grainy-textured, but the heat inside her built anyway, and broke when Patrick licked the shell of her ear.

She fell against him, shivering and moaning and without strength. He held her close, his hips rocking frantically. There was a moment of breathlessness again, a moment in which everything seemed to still and grow and ready itself. Then, he shuddered against her, too. They were both without strength then, warm and damp in each other’s arms.

She was reluctant to speak. She wanted to keep holding him, to be enveloped in the scent of his Henleys and shaving soap and, underneath, the musky, arousing scent of his sweat.

Patrick raised his head so he could kiss her. He did it slowly, shambolically. “God, Shelagh. We can’t keep doing this. We came very close,” he said.

She dragged a hand through his hair. It was moist at the roots. “I know,” she whispered. Then, “I think I preferred the second lesson to the third.”

“Why?”

“I like your fingers on my skin,” she whispered.

He grinned, and kissed her cheeks, the tip of her nose. “Cheeky girl,” he said.

“Naughty boy,” she replied. She made to slide off his lap, but he still cupped her buttocks in his hand, and wouldn’t let her.

“Patrick, we must go and clean ourselves,” she said, her voice prim and proper.

“Yes, but I thought perhaps you might want a repetition of the second lesson. Just for you, mind, not for me.”

She stared at him. “We can’t,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because I just had my release.”

He grinned almost diabolically at her. “Oh, Shelagh,” he said, and started to draw circles on her flesh. She could feel her heartache throb between her legs.

“I don’t understand,” she said, trying not to show him that the want he’d inspired in her so recently had apparently not been sated.

 _That third lesson wasn’t very good after all,_ she thought. She tried to adjust her weight, but that really didn’t help things much.

“Let me tell you a secret,” Patrick said. He kissed her throat, then the patch of skin just below her ear. Her breathing hitched as he wriggled one hand between her legs, applying pressure with his palm, feeling around a little but almost immediately locating her bud with his thumb. “Women can have multiple releases right after another,” he whispered.

“Is that the fourth lesson?” She tried to say it coolly, calmly, but how could she when his thumb started to twitch against her, and her body answered by having tiny waves of pleasure lap at her, promising to batter her by wave after wave if he kept moving like that a little longer?

“No. It’s part of the third lesson still. Maybe you’ll enjoy it as much as the second one, now,” Patrick said.

She couldn’t answer, not out loud anyway, because he started to move in earnest then. But she could think, and thought, _Maybe you’re right._

Then, she could hardly think at all, and let herself be submerged by bliss for a second time that evening.

 


	5. Lesson Number Four Part One

**Lesson Number Four Part One**

The wedding had been everything she had dreamed of, and more. When she’d walked down the aisle, clutching the flowers Sister Monica-Joan had so lovingly grown for her, she had felt her heart beat so hard in her chest she thought it would break.

_From happiness, not sadness, never sadness._

Because how could she ever be sad now that she was Patrick’s, and he was hers? Now that the guests had gone home and they entered the flat, she realised once again that they’d be joined in another way before the night was over. The thought was accompanied by a curious little ache low in her belly. Already her breathing was fast.

 _I’m excited,_ she told herself. She was happy it would happen here, in the bed that was now theirs. Tomorrow they’d leave for their honeymoon, a few days at a hotel at the west coast. Timothy had already been taken home by Granny Parker, leaving the newlyweds together for the night.

“Do you want to eat or drink something?” Patrick asked, hanging up his coat. His suit looked a little rumpled already.

She shook her head, suddenly a little shy and tongue-tied now that the anticipated moment was almost upon her.

He smiled and hugged her from behind, his hands intertwining with hers and resting on her belly. “Do you want to go upstairs instead?” he asked. His voice was sweet and soft, all velvet. He kissed the sensitive skin just under her ear.

“Yes,” she said. The word came out in a hushed whisper.

“Are you nervous?”

“A little.”

“Don’t be. It’s going to be a new experience for you, but I promise you you’ll like it,” he said.

“I know.” He wasn’t a man to break his promises. To show him that she was nervous but not afraid, she took his hand and led him up to the bedroom, claiming the house as hers by the action.

“I get to see you now,” Patrick said, his hand hot on her waist. He planted a kiss on the corner of her mouth that only increased her appetite for him rather than sate it, and went to the bathroom to get some flannels and a bowl of water for when they were done.

She went to the vanity and removed the little hat out of her hair, then took off her grey jacket and found a hanger in the wardrobe that was now hers as well as his. It was a good thing she’d decided to wear this silvery suit home; she didn’t think she could have been up to the challenge of wrestling out of her wedding dress. Should she clean her face before they made love? She didn’t want her lipstick to leave smears on the sheets.

 _But surely most of it Patrick has already kissed away,_ she thought. She could have checked it in the mirror, but she didn’t want to see herself just yet.

Patrick placed the porcelain bowl and flannels on his nightstand. He had cleared away the sprawling magazines and ashtray that had littered the small piece of furniture before, though he hadn’t dusted it very well.

He sat down on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes and socks. She turned to face him, leaning against the vanity, and started to take the bobby pins out of her hair. Patrick watched her every move, swallowing thickly when she shook her head and her hair floated around her face.

“You look so lovely today, my darling,” he said. The compliment made her blush – she wasn’t entirely comfortable with comments about her physical appearance just yet – but she smiled to show him she thought he was sweet.

“There’s a button at the top. I need you to help me,” she said.

He moved towards her slowly, like a sleepwalker. His hands were not as steady as normal when he undid the button of her blouse. He pushed his hands under the fabric, mapping her shoulder blades in his mind as he pushed the blouse off her shoulders.

She stood trembling under his touch. He kissed the nape of her neck, just below the place where little wisps of baby hairs grew. She turned around so he could help her get out of the sleeves. When that was done, his hands went around her waist so he could unzip her. The skirt slithered down her legs with a rustling sound that seemed extremely loud. She stood in just her slip.

“You first,” she murmured when he hooked a finger under the strap of her slip. A little voice told her she should probably pick up her clothes first, but it was easily hushed.

“I’d like it if you helped me,” Patrick said. Together they got rid of his jacket and shirt. It seemed to take forever for her to get his cufflinks loosened; at least he managed to unknot his tie with one hand. She touched his shoulders and chest and belly when he stood half-naked before her, assuring herself that everything she’d felt before was still the same. Patrick was the one to fumble with his belt and step out of his trousers and underwear.

“You can look,” he said when he noticed she’d trained her eyes on his face.

She dipped her gaze lower, but only glanced quickly, suddenly afraid she’d lose her nerve even though that was silly; she’d already wrapped her hand around his manhood twice, so why should the sight of him inspire unease?

“Undress me,” she whispered, taking one hand and bringing it to her mouth, taking each finger into her mouth and sucking it before moving on to the next one. When that little act of worship was complete, he took the straps of her slip into his hands and flicked them down. The fabric was shiny and clingy, and needed several tugs before it came whispering down.

Patrick hugged her to him to unclasp her brassiere. He threw the garment onto the vanity. His hands moved lower then. Gently, so gently that she barely felt his touch, he took hold of her knickers and pulled them down. They needed less encouragement, and fell to the floor with hardly a sound.

She was naked now, as was he. He took a step back so he could look at her. She shivered under the heat of his gaze, and because of the chill in the air. Her nipples hardened. Patrick stood very still, his sparkling eyes the only thing that moved. He took her in slowly. They had been naked before, but they had averted their eyes. Now, it was time to drink the other in. They were married now, and so this was right and proper.

His hand twitched against his side, and the hushed spell that had taken him captive broke. He stepped closer to her, put his hand on her shoulder, and followed the line of her collarbones with a fingertip. The hairs on her arms rose. Electricity was the power that made the heart beat, and allowed one to move. Now, it lapped at her consciousness in the form of gentle waves of pleasure. Patrick dipped his finger in the little hollow between her collarbones.

“God help me, how I love you,” he whispered.

“Please touch me more,” she whispered.

He cupped her breasts, feeling the weight of them against his worn palms. Of all places he could touch her, she was sure she liked it best when he fondled her breasts. Well, his hand between her legs came first, but surely her breasts came second place. She placed her hands on his arms and moved them through the coarse hair there. Patrick draped his arms loosely around her. She wrapped her arms around his waist and tilted up her face so she could kiss him. He was warm and hairy against her. As he gently pressed his tongue between her lips she moved her hands over his back, feeling the muscles move under his skin. She was fuelled by liquid fire. It pooled between her legs, ready to drip down if he kept touching her so.

Patrick cupped her arse and started to knead the flesh there. She whimpered into his mouth. She suddenly wasn’t so sure anymore she preferred him to touch her breasts over everything else. She wriggled against him, trying to get some friction. He put his thigh between her legs, giving her something to rock against. She rolled her hips against him. The pressure in her belly started to rise, but that felt good, very much so.

“My legs are weak,” Shelagh whispered, clinging to him with damp hands. Patrick moved his leg back and walked her to the bed. He sat down on the edge, spreading his legs a little so that she could straddle one and continue what she’d started. She did as they’d done only a week ago, only this time there was no rough fabric between her folds to scratch against the velvety flesh. There was only his skin slick with her desire, and that was bliss.

“Shelagh, how I love you,” he whispered as she rolled her hips. He ducked down his head and kissed one of her breasts, his big hands still holding her buttocks.

“Oh,” she said, stroking the silky hairs on the nape of his neck. He took one of her nipples in his mouth and sucked. Her hips jumped. Her breaths came in hot little pants. God, she was close. Everything in her coiled and strained and reached. Just a little more and she’d come, just…

He took his nipple between his teeth and scraped his incisor over the rosy flesh, doing it extremely carefully, but it was enough. She gasped hoarsely, and fell against him in a trembling heap of limbs.

Patrick cupped her face and made her look at him. His eyes were liquid with love.

 _And his smile is just a little bit cocky,_ she noted. In fact, it could rightfully be called a smirk. How powerful she made him feel in moments like this, how confident. She smiled, and looked down. She couldn’t help blushing, but surely it was all right to look at him? She had felt him before, and already had an image in her mind of what he was supposed to look like. He was hard and large. She wrapped her hand around his manhood.

Patrick groaned, and stilled her hand. She looked up, confused, afraid she’d somehow hurt him.

“Not yet, darling. If you touch me now, it’ll take a while before I’m ready again for lesson number four, and that lesson is something I very much want to engage in tonight.” He kissed the tip of her nose. She moved her hand to his chest. His skin was a little clammy. His heartbeat, though, was strong and fast underneath her palm.

“Will it hurt when you push inside me?” she whispered. She had heard women talk of blood during the first time, and how it was suffering more than pleasure. She had never experienced pain with Patrick, and she trusted him, but perhaps it was normal for it to hurt the first time.

He rested their foreheads together. “Not if I do it right. It’s never supposed to hurt, Shelagh. If it does, you must tell me right away. Do you promise?”

She nodded.

“Go and lie down on the bed,” he said.

She stood on trembling legs, feeling like a newborn doe that takes its first steps. She crawled over the cool sheets to the pillows. She placed her head on their white downiness, and pushed herself under the covers.

Patrick joined her. They lay on their sides for a while, kissing and breathing each other in. Her belly soon clenched again, as if she hadn’t had her release at all.

 _Women can have more than one release,_ she recalled. Perhaps she’d always be aching for him a little from now on, always have a part that was coiled like a spring, ready to snap under his touch.

“Shelagh, I’m going to repeat lesson number two, if that’s all right with you,” Patrick murmured after a while.

“Why?”

“I’m going to push a finger inside you, so you can get used to the feeling a little before I press into you. That way it’ll be easier. Plus I like to hear you moan.”

She blushed, and slapped his arm. “Patrick.”

He grinned that cocky grin again. “I do.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t complain when he pushed her on her back.

 _He’s so big,_ she thought as he loomed over her, his hair flopping in front of his eyes. This didn’t scare her. She felt protected by his broad shoulders, his height. She felt liquid like molten butter when he made her reach her completion, and small enough to drip into him and become part of him, forming some new creature that would never want because it was content always.

He ducked down to kiss her. She spread her legs a little, giving him room to settle between her thighs. She gasped as she felt his manhood brush her. He groaned, and scooted down the bed. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“Don’t apologise,” she said.

He sat on his knees, and caressed her thighs with his hands. She sighed under his touch. “Did you know there are different positions for lesson number four?” he asked as he placed a hand over her womanhood, smirking at the wetness he found.

“Are there?”

“Yes. And when you’re pregnant, and too big with child for us to lie on top of each other, I can make love to you like this, you lying down and me sitting up.”

The thought of her belly swollen with their child made her breath quicken.

 _Let me conceive tonight,_ she prayed. _Please, God, let me become pregnant tonight. And if not tonight, please make it soon._ Her courses had been irregular the last few months, lasting longer than twenty-eight days, sometimes not coming at all.  She had her last day of bleeding the day before she’d approached Patrick with her questions about lovemaking. She did the math in her head.

_It could happen tonight._

Patrick separated her folds, dipped his fingers into her wetness, and smeared it out. It made a squelchy sound that made her blush, but he didn’t respond to it much, so she supposed it was normal and nothing to feel slightly self-conscious about. He located her bud almost immediately and started to draw circles. She moaned and curled her hand around the corner of the pillow. Her hips started to rock without conscious effort.

“I’m going to push in a finger now,” Patrick whispered.

She nodded, and bit her lip as he gently entered her with his index finger. It was a strange sensation, almost a burning.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

“Good,” he grinned, and slowly pulled his finger out, then back in again. She moaned as his thumb applied pressure to her bud.

“I’m going to add another one. Tell me if it hurts,” he said. Slowly, very carefully, he added his middle finger. She flinched. He stopped, and touched her knee. “Spread your legs a little wider.” His voice was very deep, all gravel again. She did as he asked, and then there was only a good sense of burning.

“God,” she moaned.

“Good girl,” he said.

She cracked her eyes open. “Clever boy,” she said. He grinned at that, and started to move his fingers inside her.

 _He’ll be inside me like that soon,_ she thought, and came with little warning, her walls clenching and fluttering around his fingers. When she was trembling with the aftershocks only, he pulled his fingers out of her. They were glistening with her release. A pink ribbon curled down his index finger.

“That’s blood,” Shelagh said. She frowned. He hadn’t scratched her, or hurt her. He hadn’t drawn blood, surely? Then she remembered. “Did you pierce my hymen?”

“I’m pretty sure I did, yes.”

He wiped his hand on a flannel on the nightstand. How could he be so calm? He was hard and ready for her, had been for a while. She could hardly think or talk when she ached for him so, but he seemed rationality personified.

“Are you ready?” he asked. His voice quivered, and she realised he wasn’t as calm as she’d thought him to be.

She nodded.

He bent over her, keeping his weight off her by propping himself on his elbows. He was hard and big against her thigh. She was a little nervous all of a sudden. Patrick must have seen, for he pressed his lips against hers. “It’ll be nice, “ he promised her.

“I know.”

He entered her slowly, the muscles of his belly hard. She realised she was holding her breath, and exhaled. That made it a little easier, but he was still bigger than she’d expected, and she flinched as he filled her, the burning uncomfortable rather than pleasurable now. Patrick’s hand was on her knee, urging her to spread her legs further and pull them up higher. It was easier then. He pressed into her till he couldn’t go any further, groaning a little.

“Does that feel good?” she asked, raising a hand to push his hair out of his face. It was thick and stubborn, and flopped back against her hand.

“Very good.”

“We’re one now,” she whispered. “You’re a part of me, and I’m a part of you.”

“Joined at last,” he said.

And that was good, and right, and true.

 


	6. Lesson Number Four Part Two

 

Patrick lay unmoving inside her for a few heartbeats. Shelagh touched the wrinkle next to his mouth with her thumb, let the digit rest on his lips. He kissed the pad of her finger. She moved her hand to the nape of his neck.

“Are you ready?” he asked. His voice was very deep and husky.

“Yes,” she said. The word was barely audible, but Patrick smiled, and pressed his mouth against hers. He started to move, doing it very slowly and controlled. His breath, however, came in hot pants, betraying how high-strung he was.

It was a strange sensation, having him inside her. She’d already experienced a little bit of what was to come when he’d explored her with his fingers, but even that couldn’t completely prepare her for the strange burning that flickered with every thrust. Was it pain? Was it pleasure? Perhaps it was both. If anything, it was intense and maybe a little overwhelming, having him cradled between her thighs, feeling his warmth and his skin and his hair, smelling his aftershave and the deeply masculine tang of his sweat.

 _He’s heavy,_ she thought. His weight pressed her into the mattress. The only sounds were the rustling of sheets, their little breaths that sometimes turned into quiet moans.

 _And these slick, wet little sounds of two bodies meeting,_ she thought. No one had ever told her there would be these moist sounds. No one had ever told her that sex involved so much wetness. Their bodies were damp with sweat. Beads of it clung to the hollows of her knees, tickled her calves as they dripped down. She had perspired during the other lessons, knew she’d sweat during this one, but the intensity of it still took her by surprise somehow.  

Patrick nuzzled her neck. One of his hands was on her thigh, stroking her in long lines from knee to hip. His palm was damp, and that was new; his hands were always so dry from the constant washing his profession required. Did that mean he liked it? She wanted him to enjoy himself. He’d told her there were many ways in which to practice this fourth lesson. She’d have approved of whatever position he’d asked if that meant it was pleasurable to him. God, he was such a darling man, always trying to make her feel comfortable and loved, knowing so much about this intricate, delicate dance of lovemaking.

_And I know so little beyond what he has told me…_

How could she pleasure him tonight with this fourth lesson? She should’ve asked more before they’d started. Was she supposed to moan and wriggle and kiss him? Or was she supposed to lie in silence, letting him thrust inside her at a pace he set?

 “Are you all right?” Patrick asked. Shelagh realised she’d been lying very still, her hands clenched. She had been holding her breath. She exhaled slowly and nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Patrick stopped moving with what must have been an extraordinary amount of willpower and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Darling?”

She stroked his neck, used a little pressure so he ducked down and met her lips. She kissed him softly, tasting the wine they’d drunk at the reception, and salt.

“Are you all right?” he asked again. “Does it hurt?”

“No. I just…” She’d been lost in her mind, retreating there because it was a little much all of a sudden. She swallowed thickly. “I just don’t know what to do very well,” she said, her voice very small. She was suddenly desperately afraid she’d cry. How embarrassing would that be? And still he was inside her, and still her very core sang with need, that strange wet place between her legs thrumming like a taut bowstring.

Patrick touched his nose with hers, rubbing it like a cat might. It was a soft touch, intimate and sweet. She smiled, her lips trembling.  “I just want you to like it,” she whispered. An audible catch in her voice made it sound as if she’d swallowed a coin.

“Darling Shelagh,” Patrick said. “You don’t need to worry about that. You’ll learn a little more every time we do this. You don’t need to know it all. We can discover it all together.”

She lay still, mulling those words over in her mind. Patrick must have seen that she was worried still, for he kissed the lines between her brow, and said, “Do you want me to instruct you?”

She nodded. “Yes please.”

“All right. I’m going to move again. Try and rock your hips, darling. That way it’ll be nicer for the both of us.” He set a slow, easy rhythm. She moved her hips like he’d instructed her, doing it sloppily at first. Soon, though, instinct took over, and her hips rocked in perfect counter-rhythm to his. She was, after all, very musically inclined.

“Good,” Patrick whispered. He grinned, then groaned at the next thrust. “God, you feel good,” he said. She blushed, and kissed him. The burning between her legs was no longer a pain, but a pleasure, definitely pleasure. She realised that the ache that had been nagging in her lower belly wasn’t so much pain as emptiness. Patrick filled her for a moment only to pull away and leave her empty again, causing the ache to throb in time with his thrusts. The pressure inside her was building.

“You’re doing so well,” Patrick panted. It sounded like something he’d say to a woman in labour, and that made her smile, not in the least because the words were familiar but the tone he said them in was wholly inappropriate for the workplace. This gravelly, rasping voice was for her, only for her, because of her.

“Am I?” she asked.

“You’re a natural,” he said. He pulled out of her completely, leaving her raw and bereft, then pushed into her again, going deeper than he had before. She realised suddenly that his thrusts had been shallow up till now. He could go much further than he had, and the only reason why he hadn’t was because she was new to this, and he didn’t want to scare her or hurt her. If he wanted to, he could push his shaft into her to the hilt, and fill her completely.

 _I could never make love to someone else,_ she thought. To lie here with spread legs, accepting him into her over and over again, trusting him to pleasure her and not hurt her even though the possibility of pain was always there, was an intense form of vulnerability. She had known this before, but only now she realised the full extent of it.

Patrick’s hand travelled over her belly to cup one of her breasts. He wasn’t as gentle as he had been before, and cupped her a little haphazardly. She moaned as he rubbed her nipple, moaned louder as he pushed into her. She was liquid fire once more, the pressure higher than she’d imagined it could possibly be.

“Damn, Shelagh,” he rasped, his breath ghosting over her collarbones and throat.

“I’m…” she said, but she would be hard-pressed to form a good sentence, let alone find a word that encompassed all she felt, all she was. “Please,” she said instead, feeling like a supplicant worshipping another kind of divinity than those commonly found in churches.

Patrick continued to thrust into her, but did it shallowly, allowing him to put a hand between their damp bodies and insert a thumb between her folds, feeling for her bud. His finger slipped over it, causing her to inhale sharply. He found her again, and pressed down.

The pressure inside her broke. She was vaguely aware of saying Patrick’s name again and again, the word dripping from between her lips as she shuddered in the throes of ecstasy. Perhaps what made it so good this time was that her walls finally had something to flutter against, something to clench around. Surely this completion lasted longer than the others had? But how could she know? She was outside of time. There was just Patrick’s mouth over hers, drinking in her breath as it stuttered out of her lungs.

He was still moving inside her, doing it fluidly.

 _He’s a wave, and he’s about to fall into me and then we’ll be one,_ she thought. She clung to him as the pleasure ebbed.

“I love you,” she murmured.

Something inside him broke. Maybe those three words were the cause. Maybe it was the way her walls still trembled around him, trying to drag him in deeper. Maybe the ultimate responsibility lay in how she moved her hands over his back, his arse, feeling the muscle move underneath the skin. Whatever it was, he suddenly held her down and drove hard and deep into her, and again, and again.

“Patrick,” she gasped.

“God, Shelagh,” he rasped. A moment of breathlessness, and then he ground into her, growling against her throat, stickiness pulsing out of him and filling her.

She held him to her with all her strength, not wanting him to pull out of her and roll away. She liked his weight on her, even though he was so very heavy. He was breathing hard. She rubbed circles between his shoulder blades, cupped his skull with the other hand. He moved his face towards her, touched her nose with his.

“Darling,” he said, and tried to extract himself from her embrace.

“Don’t go,” she whispered, but he took hold of her wrists and lay down next to her anyway. She immediately placed her face on his chest. He tucked her under his arm. She slung a leg over him, wincing a little; she was sore.

He dropped kisses on her forehead, on her hair, on her eyelids. “I’m sorry. I lost control near the end,” he murmured. He hesitated, then touched her face with a hand, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “Have I hurt you?”

“No. I…” She hesitated, licked her lips. She was quickly becoming cold now that they no longer lay entangled the way they’d previously been. He rubbed her arms and pulled the covers over them. She’d have to wash the sheets.

“What did you want to say?” he asked, desperation and fear colouring his voice.

“I didn’t think you could go so deep. I didn’t know.”

He smiled a little at that. “I can go much deeper. It doesn’t always have to be gentle and sweet and shallow, Shelagh. It can be wild and rough.” He smoothed the worry lines between her brows. “But not for a while yet. All of that will come in good time.”

He reached for the flannels on the nightstand.

“Don’t,” she said.

“Darling?”

“Not yet. I don’t want to wash your seed away.” She blushed, and was unsure again. She chewed her lip, and admonished herself for being so silly. There could be no secrets between them. He had seen everything from her, had been with her like no other could ever be. If souls existed – and she firmly believed they did – theirs had touched and seen themselves reflected in the other; they were that similar. “I want to have a child with you, Patrick,” she said.

His face broke open into a smile at this confession. “You do?”

“Of course I do.”

“A little Shelagh,” he said.

“A little Patrick,” she said. He touched her lips with his, sucked her bottom lip between his teeth. Their kiss waxed and waned as it had earlier. Soon that strange place inside her woke, and wondered why it was so empty. She smiled inwardly; how could she be hungry for him even though she had been sated so recently?

“Are you tired, my love? Or do you want to have another round of this very special lesson?” Patrick quipped. “It’ll have to wait a while, but I’m more than happy to repeat any of our previous lessons in the meantime.”

“Patrick,” she murmured, and lightly slapped his arm. He grinned before his face grew tender once more.

“Or do you just want me to hold you?” he asked.

She nodded. As she lay listening to his heartbeat, her limbs growing slacker, she realised her lashes were coated together by tears.

 _It’s because I’m so happy,_ she thought, and smeared them out over his chest, bathing him in her tangible love for him.


	7. Interlude

Shelagh’s lashes were slightly gummy. Sleep had settled deep inside of her bones, and had made her weak as a kitten. Her hand lay on the pillow, just a few inches away from her face. She moved it closer, basking in the languidness of a good night’s sleep. When she finally felt the touch of her own fingertips, she brought them to her eyelids and gently rubbed them till she was able to open her eyes.

Sunlight splayed on her legs, pouring into the hotel room from a crack in the heavy red curtains. They hadn’t closed them properly last night. She hadn’t noticed.

 _I was too preoccupied with other things,_ she thought, shivering as the events from last night washed over her. That strange, secret place between her legs was moist still, and throbbed a little. She lay trembling underneath the covers, basking in the aftershocks of pleasure lived through so very recently.

***

She and Patrick had had breakfast at home. They had eaten it in bed, and for once Shelagh had been all right with that, since the sheets had needed changing anyway. Patrick had let her know how he loved her with casual touches of his big hands, by holding her close, by dropping kisses on her face and hair. He did it almost without a thought, as if all of this had become routine even though they had only been allowed to touch in such an unthinking way for less than a day.

They had washed and dressed, and then Patrick had taken two suitcases to his car. She had watched him from the bedroom, somewhat sore between the legs yet already aching for more of him. She could not describe the depth of what she felt, couldn’t even describe what exactly it was she was feeling. All she knew was that she loved him so fiercely she wanted him to lie on top of her and become one with her.

As they had left Poplar behind for a sea-side hotel to spend their honeymoon, she had admired the simple golden band on her hand. It was a license to love Patrick freely, but it was far more than that, too; it was a symbol. Her ring, shaped like a circle, was unending, just as her love for him.

They had come to the hotel in the early afternoon, had had lunch in the restaurant, and had gone up and locked the bedroom door behind them to sate their other hunger. They had made love all afternoon, only leaving the room to have dinner, which Patrick had whispered in her ear was just an interlude for their lovemaking. It had been strange to indulge in such wantonness with the sun still shining. She had laughed at her own surprise; surely she had known before that people could have sex at all times of day? Well, even if she hadn’t known prior to yesterday, now she most certainly did.

***

Shelagh’s breathing sped up as she remembered his rough hands cupping her arse, the hushed whispers, his jaw with tomorrow’s growth already upon it grating the skin of her throat and the space between her breasts and her belly.

She had known how to love someone with the whole of her soul before she had married Patrick. With him, though, she had learned how to love someone with the whole of her body, too.

She turned on her side to watch him. He was lying on his belly, his mouth slightly open. Last night he had lain spread out like a starfish. He had grown accustomed to sleep in his big bed all alone. He had remembered what it was like to share with another very quickly, though; last night, he had faithfully kept to his side of the bed.

_Well, apart from that moment when he came awake, rolled on top of you and woke you with little kisses and hushed words._

Shelagh clasped Patrick’s sleep-slackened hand and rubbed the skin between his knuckles. He looked almost childlike in sleep, especially in this position.

_No, not childlike. Vulnerable. Trusting._

She brought his hand to her mouth and kissed every knuckle. She smelled herself on his fingers. She rested her cheek against his work-roughened palm. His thumb twitched against her skin, then slowly, gently, stroked her lip.

“Hello,” Patrick whispered, his voice hoarse from sleep still.

She smiled, and kissed the fleshy mound of his thumb. “Hello.”

“Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Just a little sore.”

He smiled, his eyes slipping shut. “That’s good. And happy?”

“Very happy.”

She scooted to his side, inhaling his scent.

He tucked her against him, and smiled as he felt her pulse thunder.

She kissed the space between his collar bones, licking it and finding salt disintegrating upon her tongue.

His dominant hand travelled over her hip, then slipped between her legs. He groaned when he felt how ready she was.

“Damn,” he whispered.

“Don’t swear,” she chastised him. But she didn’t mind for very long, not when his fingers started their exploration of her pink flesh, and he whispered words of adoration and devotion and love in her ear.

They didn’t do anything new, but that was all right. The lessons they had practiced so far were worth repeating. She wanted to indulge in them again, and again, and again.

And again.

 


	8. Lesson Number Five

**Lesson Number Five**

Shelagh dragged a hand through Patrick’s hair. He was cradled between her thighs, his head between her breasts as he trailed a gentle path of kisses from her chin to her navel. She was sure he was trying to place them in a straight line, but either her foot rubbing his calf was distracting him, or he was getting somewhat distracted by her nipples, for his lips started to stray and followed the curve of each breast in turn.

They had been married for several weeks now, and although Shelagh at times still felt awkward around Patrick, and though the shyness that had plagued her so much as a child had started to resurface with her former colleagues, she had begun to carve out a place for herself in the Turner household and at the surgery.

She had hoped that Timothy would adjust swiftest to the changes, since he was a child and all children hunger for routine, but his grapple with polio and the callipers he had to wear often made him irritable. At least it also allowed for more bonding time; Shelagh would massage his legs when they pained him, and these simple, loving touches did more for their relationship than any amount of talk could have done during these early stages. This was good; if she would conceive, Timothy’s place in their little family would change from only child to eldest son and older brother. She wanted him to trust her completely when that moment came, prayed for him to be unafraid to discuss with her everything that wondered and worried him.

 The area of her new life that was by far the easiest was lovemaking. There were moments when Shelagh thought she could only be who she was really meant to be when she and Patrick were in bed together, wordlessly lavishing love upon each other.  There had been no new lessons since the wedding night, but that was all right. After all, there was so much still to learn from the first few lessons, so much more to be perfected. Besides, God willing, they would be married for years and years yet. There was absolutely no need for them to rush things.

Shelagh was snapped out of her thoughts of making haste and lessons and delight when Patrick rested his sharp chin on her belly and looked at her. She blinked, then used her thumb to get his bushy eyebrows to behave. He took her hand and kissed the palm, then continued to look at her. Her stomach did a little nervous flip.

“What is it?” she whispered. “Is something wrong?”

Patrick shook his head. “Nothing wrong. I was just thinking.”

“Thinking?”

He grinned. “Yes, thinking. It is an activity I occasionally indulge in.”

“Patrick,” she chastised him softly, pressing the pads of her fingers against his scalp and scratching. His eyes went to half-mast. Then, he took hold of her hand and stilled it.

“I want to indulge in another lesson, if you’re willing,” he said.

She blinked slowly, unsure of what to say. “I’m always willing,” she said.

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

“That’s not it. It’s just… I didn’t know there were many more lessons,” she confessed.

Patrick smiled and sat up, pulling her face to his so he could kiss her. “How can it be that you’re still such an ingénue, even though I’ve taken you almost every day?” he whispered.

“Patrick, you shouldn’t say that,” Shelagh squirmed, her cheeks flaming. He laughed and pressed his mouth against hers.

When their kiss had waxed and waned for quite a while, and Shelagh’s breath was coming in little pants and her belly positively ached with want, Patrick pulled away and sat down between her legs.

“There are still plenty of things to learn, Shelagh,” he said. His voice had that deep, gravelly quality again that made it almost a rumbling growl.

Her insides squirmed at the intensity of his gaze. “Such as?” she whispered, wondering when exactly her voice had become so breathy and hushed.

“Different positions,” he said, taking hold of her hips and pulling her against him. She gasped at the feel of him, so hard and large. “Surely you remember?” he asked. He seemed very tall now that he was sitting and she was lying on her back.

“Yes,” she said. She remembered. He had promised to make love to her like this when she was big with child, and their options for positions were limited. The very thought made her breath quicken.

 _Like the child will quicken inside of me,_ she thought, and those handful of words were enough to make her dizzy with happiness and desire and love.

But Patrick didn’t press into her like she’d thought he would. Instead, he scooted down, stroking her hips with his big hands, following the curve of the blade of bone underneath almost religiously.

“Patrick?” she asked, the ‘k’ thick in her throat, the ‘r’ rolling from her tongue like a pebble.

“That’s not the lesson I wanted to indulge in today, my love,” he growled, kissing her inner thigh.

“Then…?”

His breath ghosted over her vagina, his index fingers parted her folds and the tip of his tongue touched her in that strange, moist place.

She gasped and shuddered, feeling the very air around her change, causing hairs all over her body to stand on end.

“Patrick, you can’t!” she managed to bring out.

“Why?” he whispered, the word hushed and hot and moist.

“It’s not… hygienic!”

He smiled; she could feel the movement of his lips as a soft, insistent tugging against her folds. “Don’t you worry about that, my darling. It’s not as unhygienic as you think it is.”

 _It’s sinful,_ she wanted to say, but then his mouth resumed its attentions and all words were lost to her.

His tongue drew a circle around her bundle, so agonisingly slow that she sobbed. She buried her hands in his hair, not sure of whether she wanted to keep his face there or wanted to pull him away and beg him to just plunge into her. Her fingers were too weak to do anything but cling to him, though.

She hadn’t realised he could love her like this with his mouth. As she lay there, his tongue and lips doing things to her that made her tremble and moan (and yes, almost scream), she felt sure she’d split open and spill all her love for him on the bed, like a woman in childbirth haemorrhaging.

When she came undone she cried out his name, torn apart by the power of her feelings for him and then made new when he held her and kissed her and murmured soft words in her ear she later couldn’t remember.

 _This isn’t sin,_ she thought. How could it be when it only made her love him more?

“Was this the fifth lesson?” she asked when her breathing had slowed down enough to allow her to speak.

He grinned and nodded. “Yes.” When he kissed her, she tasted herself upon his lips, the taste strange and somewhat metallic.

She held him tight, her sweat drying on her skin. If Patrick kissed her body now, he’d taste salt. She was sure he’d taste of salt now, too.

“I didn’t know you could do this, too,” she said.

“Didn’t you?”

She shook her head. “No. But there were so many things I didn’t know before that it doesn’t surprise me to find out there’s so many things I’ve yet to learn.”

“You’ve come very far already, Shelagh. You’re a natural,” Patrick said, cupping her breast, moulding the arch of his hand so it fit perfectly over the dome of flesh.

“Patrick,” she said, very softly, her cheeks already flooding with colour.

“Yes, my love?” he asked, still grinning that cocky, self-satisfied smile he couldn’t help but wear when he pleasured her.

“You have kissed me there. Does it mean that I can kiss you there, too?” She couldn’t look at him, and toyed with his wedding ring instead, twisting the golden band round and round his finger.

“Yes you can, Shelagh, but right now there’s something I’d like more,” he said, then rolled on top of her. His weight was familiar now, his heaviness reassuring. She took his face between her palms and smiled.

“Something else?” she said.

He splayed a hand on her thigh and urged her to pull her legs up higher, widening her for him. “Something else,” he agreed, and pushed into her harder than he had before.

She held him tight, urged him on. This way of making love had become familiar, though it would never grow old.  

 _How many more lessons?_ she thought. She didn’t know. Perhaps Patrick didn’t know the number himself, either.

It didn’t matter. She was happy to learn whatever he taught her, just as he was happy to learn from her. And this was good, and right, and true.

This was love.


	9. Lesson Number Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Shelagh's infertility diagnosis she has difficulty with physical intimacy.

**TW: discussion of infertility.**

Patrick closed the door behind him very slowly, very softly, yet the metallic _snick_ still woke her like it always did. Had this been a normal night, Shelagh would have held her breath in anticipation, would have rolled towards her husband as soon as she felt his weight dip the mattress. She would have tucked herself under his arm, would have pressed a kiss against his throat, and maybe these hazy hours when she was not entirely awake yet would have given her enough courage to touch his belly with a flat hand, rubbing the soft skin there to indicate she wanted more.

But tonight was not a normal night, and so she did none of these things, but remained stubbornly on her side of the bed, her back towards him, the edge of her pillow between her teeth so he would not hear the almost-sob that had gotten stuck in her throat.

It had been five weeks since the infertility diagnosis.

It had been five weeks and three days since they’d last made love.

She couldn’t bear for him to touch her. What use was it to make love when she could never conceive? It was immoral. Besides, knowing Patrick, he would probably do it to give her the sense she mattered, that she was okay. She didn’t want that. She was broken on the inside. Her body had betrayed her. Just when she thought she was more in tune with her senses than ever before, her body had tricked her into false hope, only to smash her dream so meticulously that it couldn’t ever be pieced together again.

Whenever Patrick almost thoughtlessly tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, or let his fingertips skate the skin just below her hairline, or he placed a flat hand in the small of her back to steer her though a doorway, she felt as if he had punched her low in her belly. She’d recoil instinctively, afraid of what such a small kindness could lead to, of what it had led to in the past. The hurt in Patrick’s eyes at this was too much to bear, and so she’d look away from him, ignoring the pain that so clearly mirrored her own.

She was brought back to the present when she realised Patrick was holding his breath. He was on the cusp of saying something. She lay very still, the air growing pregnant with tension.

 _Even the air can get pregnant, but I can’t,_ she thought.

“Shelagh?” Patrick’s voice was low, the sound so soft she could pretend that he’d never spoken at all. Only that would be lying and it would be cruel, and that was not who she was.

“What is it?” she said. The words came out colder than a Scottish morning in January. She swallowed, and tried again. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. His hand hovered over her arm. She could feel the warmth of him. Suddenly the desire to lift herself slightly off the bed so he was touching her was almost undeniable. She twisted on her side instead, facing him. “What?”

“How long do you want to avoid me? How much longer do you want me not to touch you?” The frankness in his face and words took her by surprise. His words were not cold or cruelly meant, but precisely because he was asking her with such sweetness did she feel her stomach twist in agonising knots.

“What?” she repeated stupidly.

“I… I can move into the spare bedroom, if you wish. Because…” His eyes flicked towards her throat, then came back to her face. “I don’t know how much longer I can stand to lie beside you without being allowed to touch you. But I know there is something inside me that revolts you…”

She sat up so fast her hip joints popped. She pressed her hand over his mouth, trying to stop that horrible train of thought before it could poison the very air between them any further. “What are you saying, Patrick?” she whispered, his breath hot and moist on her palm. “What sort of nonsense is this? How could you ever revolt me?”

He hesitated, then took her hand and held it lightly. She pulled back. He smiled sadly. “That’s what I mean. You pull away when I touch you, as if it’s done by instinct.”

“It’s not because of you, Patrick. It’s because of me.” Her throat was thick. She swallowed, but her mouth remained dry. “How can you stand touching me when I’m so clearly broken inside?” Tears, treacherous at the best of times but now downright in mutiny against her mind, spilled down her cheeks.

“Shelagh, dearest,” Patrick said, gripping her arms and holding her against him. She snaked her arms around his chest. “Shelagh, what do you think lovemaking is?”

This brought her back to that conversation on the yellow couch many months ago. It seemed a lifetime ago. So much had changed.

_What do you think lovemaking is?_

“I wanted to have a child with you,” she whispered.

“I wanted to have a child with you, too, but just because we can’t doesn’t mean our life is over. It doesn’t mean you have failed. It doesn’t mean you’re no longer allowed to touch me and enjoy lovemaking. You must know that. You must keep going. Every ending is a new beginning,” Patrick said. The words sounded a little stale, as if he’d repeated them to himself many a time before speaking them out loud to her, perfecting this little speech so he’d be heard, understood and, perhaps, obeyed.

She wiped her raw eyes. “Another lesson?” she tried to quip.

He smiled, and kissed her cheek. “Perhaps.”

But this idea only brought other memories back, and so she sobbed and buried her face against his shoulder.

“What is it, Shelagh?” he whispered, his voice full of bewilderment, his big hand clutching the thin silk of her nightgown. “What did I say?”

“Nothing. It’s just that I remembered our wedding night, and you told me there were so many ways to make love to me, and you wanted to save some of them for when I was big with your child, and there was no other way to do it,” she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth. “And now that will never happen, because I’ll never have your child. This belly of mine will never be swollen and tight as a drum,” she said, and pulled her nightgown up to show him what she meant. She pinched her skin between her nails, leaving little red half-moons above the pink scar of her surgery.

Patrick grabbed her hands and pulled them away. “Don’t,” he said and kissed her hands. “Don’t.”

“Let me!” she hissed, and tried to shove him back on his side of the bed. And then she was in his arms, and her mouth was on his or maybe his mouth was on hers, and she shuddered in his embrace. She should pull away, but he tasted so familiar, and she was hungry for his touch, his love, for him, so she let him lay her down and let him undress her and kiss her breasts and tenderly trace her scar. She had missed him, by God, she had.

He pulled away.

He towered above her, his eyes glittering. His mouth was set in a hard, grim line, and for a moment she wondered if she’d angered him, if he was furious with her. But he simply got rid of his pyjama trousers and his underwear, then took hold of her hips, still sitting up. Desire clenched in her belly, wrapping around her ovaries like ivy until it hurt.

“You can’t. You said…” she said.

“I know what I said. I know what you mean. But don’t you know, darling, that we can make love like this at any time?”

“You said only when I was pregnant would you do it like this.”

“Things have changed since then, haven’t they?”

She smiled through her tears. “I suppose they have, yes.”

He pressed inside her, doing it slowly but going deeper than he had before. She moaned, her hands placed on his.

“You’re so hard, so big,” she whispered.

“You’re so warm, so wet,” he answered, and if this had been an ordinary night she’d have blushed and mumbled she’d prefer him not to speak in such a way, but this was no ordinary night, and so she let him. She let him thrust into her harder than she’d ever had allowed before, and found it caused no pain, just pleasure.

“I love you,” she panted, then moaned, and finally screamed. “Patrick, I love you.”

“I love you, you sweet thing,” he growled, and bent over her to kiss her, their slick bodies meeting, his position inside her changing and causing sweet release to wash over her. She held him and he held her, and she cried, and though that normally embarrassed her, it was the right thing now.

It was, after all, no ordinary night.


	10. Lesson Number Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shelagh had thought she knew what she was up against when she adopted baby Angela. She’d thought she knew it was exhausting, and demanding, and at times even frightening.
> 
> She just hadn’t realised quite how exhausting, and demanding, and frightening.
> 
> And how little time it left for her and Patrick to be intimate...

**I’m back into the fold! I know my updates have been rather irregular (real life has been crazy), but I’m trying to get back into the habit of having a weekly fanfic uploaded on Fridays.**

Shelagh had thought she knew what she was up against when she adopted baby Angela. She’d thought she knew it was exhausting, and demanding, and at times even frightening.

She just hadn’t realised quite _how_ exhausting, and demanding, and frightening.

She had to restrain herself from weighing Angela every day to make sure she was gaining enough, had to force herself not to put the baby under yet another blanket (the poor thing had been quite red and irritable after the first chilly night, because Shelagh had positively smothered her in hand-knitted blankets), had to keep telling herself a cold or an ear infection or a stomach bug every now and again was not only perfectly normal, but also perfectly necessary to develop Angela’s immune system.

As soon as the child was asleep, Shelagh would flop down on the bed and lie there with eyes closed, bathing in the simple bliss of quietude for a while.

 _And I don’t even have to deal with pregnancy hormones and leaking breasts,_ she’d think. Timothy and Patrick had been absolute dears besides, helping her to feed Angela, setting the table, washing dishes. Neither of them were very enthusiastic when nappies needed to be changed, but this was hardly a thing to be wondered at; Shelagh didn’t look forward to sodden nappies much herself, either.

Of course no dirty nappy was a match against her need to keep things clean, and no matter how much Angela fussed and cried and threw up, Shelagh could always remember why she wanted this.

The only thing she missed from before was the time she and Patrick used to have in the bedroom.

She was tired at the end of the day, but Patrick seemed positively dead on his feet. One night, when she’d rolled on her side and had started rubbing his belly and peppering his throat with kisses, he’d taken her hand and stilled it. “I was almost asleep, Shelagh,” he’d murmured.

“Yes, well, but now that you’re awake I figured there was something else we could do,” she’d said, bringing his hand to her mouth and touching his knuckles with the tip of her tongue.

“I’m too tired. I’m sorry, darling,” he’d said.

“It’s fine. It doesn’t matter,” she’d said, but he hadn’t heard because he had fallen asleep in earnest then.

 _Well, he’s a good deal older than I am, and juggling a demanding profession besides,_ she’d told herself, listening to the little growl he made at the back of his throat which wasn’t quite a snore but on its way to becoming one.

But it simply wouldn’t do. Patrick had awakened a need in her, a perpetual craving lying dormant until woken by a simple touch. It needed to be hushed and stilled, and there was only one way to do that.

 _I will simply have to try a little harder,_ she thought.

And so she decided upon a plan of attack, and prepared accordingly.

The moment to strike presented itself one cold winter night. Patrick had the afternoon off, and wasn’t on call for the evening and night. He had taken a short nap as soon as he’d come home, then sat sequestered in his office doing paperwork for a good two hours. He seemed refreshed after this; he ate hearty meal, helped doing the dishes, and helped Timothy with his math’s homework with no complaint. The poor boy was as tired as they all were, and went upstairs for an early night, his eyes thick from lack of sleep.

“Poor Timothy,” Patrick said as he scooped Angela up. “Your poor brother. You’ve kept him awake a lot lately, you know.” He took her tiny starfish hand in his and blew on her fingers. She gurgled sleepily.

“She’s been awake herself a lot, too,” Shelagh said.

“Yes, she does look as if she needs a good night’s sleep. I’ll put her in her crib upstairs.” Patrick smiled at his daughter, holding her in the crook of his arm, his head bent to one side like a flower on a snapped stem, the way he always held his head when something endeared him.

Shelagh waited till the creak of his feet on the stairs faded, then padded after him. When she was at the top of her stairs her breathing came in quick little gulps already. Her belly clenched almost painfully in anticipation. She took a moment to inhale deeply, then tiptoed to the bedroom.

Patrick was standing over the crib, staring at their little girl with a tired grin on his face. God, the things he did to her with that sloppy grin…

He looked up, startled a little. “I didn’t hear you,” he whispered, his arm already reaching for her.

She let him pull her into his embrace, resting her forehead against his chest, splaying her hands next to her face. He smelled of baby formula, talcum powder, aftershave, and vaguely of sweat. Part of her was happy to stand still like this, her husband’s arms around her, his scent and warmth covering her. Another part, smaller but stronger and meaner, demanded she ask for more.

She took hold of his tie and undid it slowly before unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt. Thank God Angela had drooled all over that ugly beige sweater of his, or Shelagh wouldn’t have been able to do this. She parted the fabric of his shirt with both index fingers, then pressed her nose against him. The patch of skin between his collarbones was free of hair. She touched it with her lips, lavishing it with small, damp kisses.

“Shelagh,” Patrick said, placing his hands over hers. “Shelagh, maybe we should get some sleep.”

She tilted her head up so she could kiss his throat. He groaned, one hand automatically falling to the small of her back. “Should we?” she murmured, her breath hot and short.

“I have to get up early tomorrow for work,” he whispered.

“I have to get up early tomorrow because Angela will need feeding,” she retorted. She cupped his face, the contours of his cheekbones and jaw hard against her palms. “That’s not a reason not to. I want you.”

“It’s all right if we don’t do this. You don’t have to because you think I need it,” Patrick said.

Annoyed she tilted her head back so she could look at him. “Patrick, you’re a very daft man if you think I’m doing this just to please you.”

He blinked at her in surprise, then grinned a little. “Am I?”

She nodded, carding her left hand through his hair, pressing her fingertips against his scalp in the way she knew made his knees weak. “Very daft.”

His hands dropped lower, cupped her arse. “I’d hate you to think me daft,” he said, kneading her buttocks.

She moaned loudly, the sound almost a purr.

Angela sighed, then mewled.

Patrick and Shelagh froze, their hearts beating quickly, their breathing a little ragged already.

Angela sighed again before becoming quiet.

Patrick’s eyes locked with Shelagh’s. “If we’re going to do this, we must be very quiet,” he whispered, “Or our little Angel girl will wake and leave us with unfinished business.”

 _Another lesson, I suppose._ “Understood.” She stood on tiptoes so she could touch the space just below his ears with her lips. Patrick’s hands dropped lower. He bunched up the fabric of her skirt before slipping both hands underneath.

Startled, he opened his eyes.

She grinned up at him. “What?” she whispered.

“Mrs Turner, I think you’ve forgotten to wear your knickers today.”

“Oh dear,” she said.

“Sly thing. Well, I suppose it saves us the trouble of undressing you completely. Very smart, with these wintery temperatures.”

But as they rocked and met and intertwined beneath the sheets they grew warm and sweaty anyway.

They didn’t make a sound, though.


	11. Lesson Number Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shelagh tries to make sure things go back to normal after Patrick's breakdown. TW: mental illness

**TW: mental illness**

 

Patrick sat on the edge of the bed and fumbled with his shoelaces. Shelagh watched him from the bathroom doorway, a bowl of steaming water in her hands, two towels  and a flannel slung over her arm.

 _How tired he looks, how drawn,_ she thought.

Patrick gave up. His hair was greasy, flopping in front of his eyes in thick strands. Shelagh knelt down at his feet, placing the bowl next to her.

“Let me,” she said.

“I’d hoped we could postpone the time you had to help me with my shoes at least by another twenty years,” he said, giving her a tired smirk. 

“You’re ill, Patrick. It’s all right to need help for things you don’t normally need help with when you’re not well,” she said, managing to undo the knot in his laces and slipping the shoe from his foot.

“I’m no longer ill, darling. I’m just tired now.” He slung his breeches down and started to unbutton his shirt, his trembling fingers slipping on the slick buttons.

Shelagh tugged off the other shoe.

“So you realise you were ill? That your breakdown was not something to blame yourself for?” He wriggled his toes at her.

“I realise that now, yes,” he said, his voice soft. He placed a finger underneath her chin and tilted her head up. Their faces were only inches apart, close enough for her to smell the vinegar and chips on his breath. She preferred a healthy meal, but keeping the surgery and household running as well as saving a woman from diphtheria with Patrick’s help was a lot to do in one day, so she had conceded to having chips on the way back home. Really, she’d have agreed to almost anything; giddiness from seeing Patrick back in the fold again had made her lightheaded and malleable.

“I’m sorry you were so worried,” he said.

 _Don’t apologise._ The words were on the tip of her tongue. She swallowed them down. “I’ll always be worried when my loved ones are in pain,” she said. She stood and took hold of his hand, tugging him up. He stepped out of his trousers and underwear as she put  a towel on the bed. When he sat down she helped him undo the final buttons of his shirt. He shrugged out of it, dropping the shirt to the floor where it lay crumpled and sweat-stained.

She dipped the flannel in the water, wrung it out, made Patrick lift his arm, and scrubbed his armpit, then the rest of his arm. She submerged the flannel, wrung it out again, and started on his other arm. He sat still, shivering as droplets beaded in his chest hair, rolled down his body. He groaned when she took his hands and cleaned the grease from the chips from the folds of his palms, not even forgetting the tiny flap of skin between each finger.

“I’ve missed you,” Shelagh said by the time she had reached his feet.

 _Such an act of devotion, to wash a man’s feet,_ she thought. The water had become tepid and cloudy by now, but she was loath to get fresh water; she was afraid Patrick wouldn’t allow her to take care of him like this anymore once she’d gotten up. She put the flannel on the bottom of his right foot and scrubbed.

“I won’t ever go away again,” he said, placing his cool, long fingers on her cheek.

“You don’t know that. You can’t promise that,” she said. _You are seventeen years older than I am._

He smiled a little sadly. “If it’s in my power, I’ll never go away again, then,” he said, very solemnly.

She balanced on the balls of her feet and stretched herself so she could reach his mouth with hers. She could taste the vinegar and chips now, as well as something slightly sour.  The tip of his tongue touched her gums, her teeth, then tapped the tip of her tongue. She pulled away, sank down on her knees, continued to clean between his toes. A thick dot of hair grew on every toe, coarse and curly.

“How well you take care of me,” Patrick said.

“There’s nothing I enjoy more,” she replied, picking up the second towel and drying him off. the fabric was soft. She started between his toes, then moved up. He flexed his feet when she touched his calves.

When she had finished drying his legs, she found her husband half hard. Without looking at his face she cupped his manhood in her hand, touching his balls with her fingertips. They were the softest part of him, almost velvety. Patrick groaned, and clasped her wrist.

“Shelagh, I’m sorry,” he said, and made to scoot away from her.

“It’s good to see everything is back in working order, Doctor,” she quipped, her voice a whisper. He shivered as the words ghosted over him.

“It’s that nurse’s uniform of yours. It does things to me,” he said. He still held her wrist in his hand, his thumb on her pulse point, the map of veins on the inside of her wrist obscured by his fingers. Did he feel how her heartbeat had started to quicken?

“I’m glad,” she murmured.

“Shelagh, we shouldn’t.”

She flicked her eyes up at him. “Why not?”

“I don’t want you to think you have to.”

“What a daft man you are, sometimes,” she said, and placed a damp little kiss on his shaft. He made a soft growl at the back of his throat as she kissed him there again, and again, and again, trailing a line of kisses from his base to his tip.

“Shelagh,” he said, her name transformed into something guttural and gritty. Soft want unfurled in her belly at the sound of his voice. She placed one hand on his knee to steady herself, then took the tip of his penis into her mouth.

She had tried this before, but she had always felt very self-conscious, very insecure. It had stopped her from enjoying it, from giving herself over to this sexual, loving act. Tonight, there was no such thing stopping her. She sucked harder, wetting him with her tongue.

“Shelagh,” Patrick repeated. He took hold of her hair at the base of her skull, wound his hand into it. Did he know he was pulling a little?

She took him further into her mouth. She cupped his balls and weighed them before stroking them. Patrick’s breath came in pants now, hoarse punches that made his belly almost concave at times. He’d lost weight; she’d have to make sure he’d eat well in the coming weeks.

“Shelagh, I want you. I love you,” he murmured, gasping. He was close.

She gently released him, sat up on her knees and pushed him back onto the bed. He dutifully scooted over the covers and lay back, his penis glistening from her saliva. She pulled her knickers down, then crawled over to him. She wanted him so much it coated the inside of her thighs.

“I’ve missed you,” she murmured as she straddled him, hitching up her skirts. When she sank down on him he uttered a low cry. She sat still, her chest rising and falling rapidly. God, it was good like this. He was hard, and big, and deep.

They had never done it like this before. Patrick had asked her several times, but she had always told him she liked his weight on her. The truth was she enjoyed it when he took the lead; it allowed her not to think, simply to follow. Tonight was different, though. Tonight, he needed her to lead him out of darkness, to take his hand and help him through that final stretch.

She moved slowly, calmly. Having him inside her like this was new; he touched her in different places, in different ways. Soon her thighs burned, but she didn’t mind, not when he hit that sweet spot over and over again.

It didn’t take long, not this time. He came with something akin to a sob, spilling himself inside her, one hand on her hip, the other on the curve of her breast through her uniform. She kept rocking until she had her own release, then slid off of him and lay down next to him, matching her breaths to his.

“I’ve missed you,” she repeated, kissing his damp temple. His hair was still greasy and in need of washing.

He pulled her on top of him and held her tight. The rise and fall of his chest was calming, as was the steady sound of his heartbeat. “Shelagh, I adore you. I don’t think I can do without you,” he said, and started to cry.

“You won’t have to,” she said.

“You can’t promise that,” he said.

“But I’ll do whatever lies in my power to stay by your side,” she replied, and kissed his tears away.

 


	12. Lesson Number Nine

**Life is quite hectic at the moment, but I’ll try and keep the fanfics coming at a somewhat regular basis!**

Shelagh sat in front of her vanity mechanically brushing her hair. The bristles rasped through her locks with a strange, almost papery rustle she had stopped noticing almost ten minutes ago.

 _Sister Julienne must think me immoral,_ she thought for what was surely the hundredth time since she’d come home from the surgery. _She must think my standards have become really rather lax since I’ve left the order._

It was no trouble at all to recall the disappointment on her former Mother superior’s face when she sided with Patrick on the topic of contraception, nor her hurt. The worst of it all, though, was surely the ice in Sister Julienne’s voice when Shelagh had tried to make peace by offering her a lemon puff, and the other woman had asked whether she didn’t have “anything plainer”.

But what had the nun expected of her? That she’d side with her and not her husband? Or, perhaps even more hurtful, that Shelagh had no opinion of her own and was simply waiting to be instructed by a former authority as to what to think?

“You’re doing that awfully hard,” Patrick said.

Shelagh blinked and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He stood behind her, his face crumpled in a tender smile. The top two buttons of his pyjamas were open, allowing some greying chest hair to spill out.

“I’m sorry?” she said.

“Your brushing. You’re bound to hurt your scalp,” he said.

As he said it, she felt her scalp start to tingle and burn a little. She grimaced, and put the brush down. “I’m not entirely myself,” she said.

“Oh, darling, do you want to talk about it?” he asked, resting his large hands on her shoulders, his chin on her crown.

“Let’s sit on the bed,” she said. He stepped away from her and sat down on the edge, patting the place beside him. She sat down next to him, the difference in their weight causing the mattress to dip more on his side. She slid closer to him because of it. He tucked her under his arm instinctively, and dropped a kiss on her temple as he waited for her to start talking.

“Our talk with Sister Julienne has made me think,” she said, choosing her words with care.

Patrick’s thumb dipped underneath the capped sleeve of her nightgown to caress the strip of skin normally hidden by the thin fabric.

“And what did it make you think?” he asked.

She sighed and removed her glasses so she could rub her eyes. Patrick took them from her and placed them on the nightstand.

“We never had to think about contraception ourselves,” she started, “because I wanted a baby.”

“ _We_ wanted a baby,” he corrected her.

“Because we wanted a baby,” she said. “And I suppose the topic would’ve come up at some time if I hadn’t been infertile, but because I was, we never had to discuss it in relation to ourselves, and I’ve never given it much thought. But now that we’ve spoken to Sister Julienne, and she has spoken about morals, I feel…” She blinked in frustration, looking for the right words. “I’m afraid she judges me,” she said.

“She’s never judged you badly for differing from her opinion before,” Patrick said.

“Not because of that, Patrick,” she said, and tilted her face towards him. “I’m afraid she’ll judge me because we have marital relations even though we’ll never have a child. I’m afraid she’ll think it lustful.” She gave a tremulous smile. “I’ve never thought she’d think that before today, but now…”

“Oh, Shelagh,” Patrick said, and sighed.

“I’m sorry, I know…”

“Haven’t I tried to teach you from the first that sex is about a lot more than getting a baby?” he asked, his voice gentle.

She nodded. “Of course you have, and I think you’ve been rather successful. After all, we sometimes do things that could in no way ever lead to pregnancy…”

He grinned at her, looking somewhat like a naughty schoolboy. “Like when you give me a good, hard suck?” he said.

She flamed crimson. “Patrick, you’re a dirty beast,” she exclaimed, and slapped his chest.

He laughed, and caught her hand in his. “If I am, it’s because you make me one,” he said.

She was still flushing. “I’m just afraid Sister Julienne will think me immoral. She knows sex is necessary for a healthy marriage, and yet…” she said.

He stilled his laughter, his hand still folded around hers. “Sister Julienne’s experiences with sex are those of an outsider, and I’m afraid sex is one of those things one really needs to experience to understand all facets of it,” he said.

“You are right, I suppose,” she said, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Why don’t you go to her tomorrow and talk it over? Sister Julienne is a loving, caring, forgiving person. I’m sure your worries will be soothed once you speak with her,” he said.

“I suppose I should, yes,” she said.

“Come, don’t frown,” he said, and took her face between his hands so he could kiss her between her eyebrows. His breath was warm on her face, a little moist.

She placed a hand over his to trap it there. He kissed her cheek, her nose, the corner of her mouth. She looked at him through her lashes, the first throb of desire starting low in her belly. His eyes locked with hers, his pupils dilating until they had swallowed almost all colour. Something arced between them then, and when he pressed his mouth against hers, it wasn’t tender, but demanding.

She opened her lips immediately, touching the tip of her tongue to his. Patrick turned on the bed, placing one knee on the mattress. She let her hand fall from his and leaned back, resting her weight on her elbows as Patrick devoured her mouth.

“Lay back on the bed,” he panted between kisses. She did as he asked, her nightdress rucking up around her hips. He loomed above her, big and solid and safe, then ducked down and pressed against her.

“Patrick,” she mewled as he kneaded her breasts through her nightgown. “Patrick, I want you. I want you hard and long.”

He sat up, his chest falling and rising rapidly. “Undress,” he growled, his own hands fighting with the buttons of his pyjama. She sat up and pulled her nightdress over her head with trembling fingers, then dragged her knickers down. Patrick threw his pyjama bottoms and underwear into some corner of the room. Contrary to her expectations, he didn’t duck down to devour her again.

“On your belly,” he said. She did as he asked, a thrill of arousal spiking through her. Patrick would sometimes get a little dominant with her (and, truth be told, she sometimes would with him), but she sensed strongly that tonight he’d be more than just a little dominant. Once, when they’d been safely ensconced in each other’s warmth and the dark of night, and he’d asked her what she’d desired, she’d sleepily murmured into his ear she’d like him to ravish her. He had smiled, and had kissed her eyelids, first the right, then the left, then the right again. “When you’re ready for it, I will,” he’d promised.

She supposed tonight was the night.

Patrick didn’t lie on top of her. Instead, he kneaded her buttocks, then gently touched her between her legs with his middle finger, stroking her. She gasped and bucked against his hand.

He leaned over her, gently pushing her hair to one side so he could kiss her neck, then the shell of her ear. “You’re exactly how I like you best,” he whispered, his voice thick and rasping.

“How?” she managed to ask.

“Wet, and warm, and willing.” He kissed her neck again, then suddenly, finally, entered her, doing it sharp and quick.

She gasped and moaned, her belly clenching. Her hand fisted in the sheets. _I’ll have to wash these sheets tomorrow. I would’ve put a towel underneath us had I known we would do it on top of the sheets,_ she thought, and realised she was happy she hadn’t known.

“Tell me if it is too much,” Patrick said.

“It’s not enough,” she said. She cried out when he thrust into her, doing it deep and hard and quick, exactly like she’d wished he once would that night almost two years ago. Sweat beaded on her body, beaded on his. The sounds they made were slick, their moans and pants hoarse, loud. When she came, she did so with little warning, her whole body convulsing, pleasure bursting inside her belly, fragments of the explosion travelling through her legs to her curling toes.

“I love you,” she sobbed as Patrick placed another sloppy kiss on her neck. He stopped driving into her so vigorously so he could take hold of her chin and tilt her face to his, kissing her.

“I adore you,” he growled.

She came another time, and a third, each orgasm deeper and more intense until she felt she’d fall apart.

“God, your body is trying to drag me in deeper whenever you come,” Patrick grunted, his movements becoming somewhat haphazard, a sure sign he was close to his own completion.

“It’s because I don’t want to be empty, and I’m so empty without you,” she said.

“Let me take care of that.”

“Then come,” she moaned.

He thrust into her a few more times, then pressed himself into her as far as he could, spilling himself in her for what felt like a very long time. When he was done he rolled away from her and lay on his back. He dragged a hand through his hair and let out a very deep sigh.

“Damn,” he said.

“Damn,” Shelagh agreed, interlacing her fingers with his. She was weak as a kitten from pleasure.

Patrick grinned at her. “May I ask you not to mention any of this when you’re having your conversation with Sister Julienne about the benefits of sex for a healthy marriage?”

“Don’t be filthy,” she said.

Patrick laughed, the sound rumbling and dear. She opened her mouth to say something, then simply joined in with his mirth, and laughed till she was spent.


	13. Lesson Number Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shelagh has a dream she'd like to share with Patrick.

**I know it has basically been forever, but I’ve snatched a moment in between all the other things that need doing and have written another chapter. I have no idea when another chapter might be written, but there’s this one for now.**

“Patrick?” Shelagh whispered. They were in bed together, safely ensconced in sheets and warmth and each other’s scent, both on their sides, her belly against his back, her arms around him. When they went to sleep this was usually the other way around, but Shelagh was the sort of person who could toss and turn and occasionally suffer from restless nights, which would inevitably result in different sleeping positions than the ones they had started with.  

 Patrick didn’t respond, so Shelagh tried again, kissing his neck before speaking. “Patrick, dearest?” Her hand rested on his belly. His shirt had been rucked up at some point when, asleep, he had shifted, exposing a strip of skin. She felt it with her fingertips. The skin was soft, the hair coarse. Patrick would hate for her to call his stomach a pouch, so she never did so out loud, but the truth was he had started to fill out a bit since their marriage. He was no longer as wiry and hard as he used to be, no longer just sinew, skin, bone; there was some fat on him now. She curved her hand to fit his belly. No longer concave, but convex.

_Like my belly might…_ She stopped herself there, but still the thought triggered a quickening of her heart.

“Patrick?” she asked a third time, kissing the rosy shell of his ear.

_Three times. The number of the Lord. The number of fairy tales._ And, just like this logic led her to expect, Patrick’s breathing changed, signalling he had come awake.

“Shelagh? What is it? What time is it?” he murmured, his voice raspy.

It was hard to know for certain without glasses on, but she guessed it was somewhere around three in the morning.  “Not time to get up just yet,” she replied.

He inhaled deeply. Her arm rested on his chest; the expansion this inhalation triggered caused her arm to shift, her hand to move from the bit of skin she had warmed with her palm. “Are you ill?” he whispered.

She thought of the mornings she’d lately spent on her knees above the toilet bowl, vomiting till she was empty, and then still retching for a good minute longer. She thought of the dizziness which made her feel strangely devoid of substance when she stood too quickly, and the soreness of her breasts which had made picking up babies into a painful affair.  

“No. No, I’m fine, dearest,” she assured him, placing little damp kisses on the line of skin just behind his ear.

“You sure? No Cape-Town tummy anymore?”

“Nothing of the sort.”

_A different sort of tummy, though._

He opened his mouth, seemed to be on the cusp of saying something, ultimately remained silent. Shelagh had always thought it was to her husband’s credit that he knew when to speak and when to hush. Unlike her, he was patient. He would wait for her to say why she’d woken him at so strange a time (or sleep would claim him first, though not because Patrick gave himself over to his weariness without fight).

“I’ve had a dream for such a long time…” she started, then realised she couldn’t find the words to finish her sentence.

“A dream?” Patrick asked.

_Does he suspect I’m with child?_ This time the thought unfurled before she could reign it in. Happiness so acute it made her ache battered her from the inside out.

_How easy it would be to share my joy with him, and in sharing, doubling it._ Wasn’t this why she had woken him? To tell him something had changed within her, irrevocably so?

But how he was waiting for her to speak, she found herself oddly reluctant all of a sudden. The hours before dawn are strange, bewitching. What would be said at so strange a time could not possibly be true once morning came. Better to tell him at a safer hour, when magic was at bay and the sun reigned over them rather than the moon.

Her happiness, however, could not be denied, nor could her desire to share some of it with him. She kissed his neck again, rasping her lips past the stubble of tomorrow – _today_ – and let the hand resting on his stomach dip lower.

It didn’t take long to get his breathing to change once again. It went from deep and slow to shallow and quick as he hardened in her hand. After a minute or so he clasped her wrist and stilled her administrations. He flipped on his other side so he could look at her, and regarded her with frank desire mixed with surprise, his eyes turned to slits as he squinted so he could make her out. Shelagh did not think Patrick vain, but there was a touch of pride in him, and so he had refused for the past year or so to get his eyes checked.

She took the hand he had folded around her wrist  and moved it between her legs, through the hair that grew there – coarse, just like his – until his fingers dipped between her folds and felt the slickness there.

“My, my, Mrs Turner,” he whispered, “I think you’ve forgotten your underwear.” He paused, grinned, kissed the tip of her nose. “And I think you are in need of some attention after all. God, how wet you are.”

She kissed him as she drew him on top of her. He wriggled out of his pyjama bottoms and underwear and sheathed himself inside of her. She pulled her legs up higher, wanting him inside her all the way.

_How often we’ve done this, and how often I’ve wished for a child whilst we did this,_ she thought. For a moment her thought turned to the towels she had been adamant they use to save the sheets, but the moment was fleeting; how important, after all, can bits of fabric be at that strange time when a dream unfurls?

Patrick started to move, one hand on her thigh, his fingertips dimpling her skin. She palmed her own breast, whining into his mouth. Good God, how sensitive she was! A simple flick of her fingertip over her nipple made her guts clench with want.

_This is a development I must keep track of for the next few months,_ she thought. Patrick would be more than happy to help her, and not all in the name of science, she was sure.

Their coupling was quick, a little sloppy, very good. Afterwards they lay as they always did at the start of sleep, he curled around her, his stomach pressed against her back.

“It must’ve been a very good dream, the one you’ve had,” Patrick murmured, sleep making his voice slur like that of a drunkard.

Shelagh entwined their hands and placed them low on her belly. “Oh, yes. You’ll love it,” she said, squeezing his hand. “And very soon, I’ll tell you all about it.”


End file.
